


The Wolves of Winter

by JustAWhiteQuill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Cousin Incest, Eventual Smut, F/M, Identity Issues, Is it slowburn if they won't meet for a while?, Jon Snow is King in the North, Light Angst, Marriage of Convenience, Memory Loss, Mostly Jon/Sansa, Period-Typical Sexism, Politics, Post ADWD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Showverse barely acknowledged, Stark-centric (ASoIaF), The Grand Northern Conspiracy, The Long Night, The War for the Dawn, Worldbuilding, bookverse, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 11:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 132,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21409123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAWhiteQuill/pseuds/JustAWhiteQuill
Summary: ~When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.~Beneath a wall of ice, a crow died and came back a wolf. Now, he is crowned King in the North and faced with the immense task of preparing his battered kingdom for the Long Night.Atop the lonely mountain, a little bird grew fangs and came back a wolf. Now, she is the Princess of Winterfell and taking care of the only family she thinks she has left.When news reaches them of the other still being alive, a chain of events is set in motion. Winter is coming, and with it, the darkest hour of the night. The time for wolves is here. All the while, the dragons and lions south are battling for a throne covered in fire and blood.Update: On hold for now
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 327
Kudos: 772





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A self-indulgent piece I started writing after I reread ADWD and realized it's been 8 years since it was published...I have a slight idea where I'm heading towards, but that's all up in the air; I'm aware of my own fickleness. 
> 
> Telling you beforehand, I suck at writing romance and smut haha. This is more exploration of general possibilities and whatnot, which Jon/Sansa's marriage is central, but not the main theme. I just wanted to flesh out the North.
> 
> PS: I can't believe Mormont's Raven is a tag, haha.
> 
> PPS: The King made me pick up the pen and start writing.

* * *

**THE LORD COMMANDER**

"They murdered me..." 

The words tasted like a disease on his dry-skinned tongue, a cold, rotten, festering infection spreading through the veins of his body as the words sank in.

Jon could feel his will being moulded into the sharp-edged tip of a dagger, nothing but vile bitterness and crippling disbelief seeping out of the wound it was lodged into. It was staining his mind, staining his soul, staining everything he had come to believe. It horrified him, the realization. _Murdered by my own brothers. _

Gods, what a cruel jest. 

Men he believed to be kindred spirits, men bound together by the same hallowed vows, brothers clad in equal black-ridden cloaks of crow's feathers, brothers with the same hearts tempered by the Wall's looming chill. They had plunged their blackened knives inside him the moment they determined he was no longer worthy of their kinship. 

Morbidly, Jon came to see that he only ever felt an echoing emptiness. He felt no heartbreak, no sorrow, no grief. Nothing except a massive void the size of the Wall itself, sucking the life out of him 

When it hit him with the full force what just had befallen, Jon almost made it for a bucket, reeling back from the horror. He sailed with a hand over his chest to search for the proof of his ill-fated death, and when Jon sensed the jagged wounds across his chest, wounds picked open like brittle scabs, he toppled over the edge and actually lurched for a bucket. 

He had been violated, his body ravished by the lethality of traitorous knives. Never would Jon have believed that, out of all places, betrayal would have come from his own brothers. It horrified Jon. It terrified Jon. 

For a while, since he woke up, a madness ruled over him, digging its claws into him viciously, a rattling resonating deep within him, like the chains of a beast, stirring it from its slumber. A beast which was better left in peace 

Every single thought went back to the horrifying truth that he had died.

_Murdered by my own brothers... _

Loss and incertitude welled up inside him. Jon knew not what he was to do now. The Night's Watch and serving honourably had been his sole purpose for as long as he was made to realize what ill fate bastards suffered if left to their own. The Watch gave him a purpose, an honourable purpose. Now that purpose spilt between his fingers like blood from a wound he could not suture. 

How could he remain here, the very place where honour had him killed instead? It chilled him to his very bone, this sense of loss. No, he could not remain here. Every hall within Castle Black would remind him of... 

The cloak made of white bearskin scrapped against the rough-spun fabric of his tunic as Jon shuffled in his oaken seat, his eyes brooding into a corner as he reclined deeper inside the cloak. It had been short of an hour since he had been resurrected, the moon hanging high still, shedding a soft light through the window panes, soot and brimstone and death still clotting his nostrils. 

The memory of wanton fire swaying like Summer Isle belly dancers was still firmly carved into the films of his mind, like red sirens, beckoning him with sultry coos and promises of peace. Screams rang through the shell of his ears, young and anguished, a desperate plea in its tone, soft-spoken and sweet like a doe's innocence, but sad and lonely as a raincloud. It came to him like a phantom, this voice, a haunted lullaby, like one of those tales meant to frightened children into good behaviour; it looked like it was trying to tell him something. Jon felt like going mad all over again. 

His surroundings made little sense to him, the dark and stale room doing nothing to invoke a memory or helping to settle down his unease, a hearth crackling weakly in the far corner, embers flickering around and giving the room a soft glow of disquiet. 

"Back! Back! Back!" The damnable raven began shrieking again, fluttering its large wings as it came to sit on the head of a wooden chair. 

Now and then, his ears picked up the coughs of the beautiful wilding woman thick with honey-coloured hair, pallid face scrunched up warily as she kept watch over him from her perch against the desk of this room, grey-blue eyes piercing through him and keeping vigilance over Jon like he was both a prized relic and a greyscale-stricken hazard. 

She had been like that since they got here, her posture sprung taut like a bow about to loose an arrow; she looked like she was either ready to end his existence or tuck tail and flee any moment. He did not comment on it. Let her watch a walking dead man if she had no other task to occupy her mind with; it only served to discomfort her, not him. 

The door creaked open then, and in came a burly man as broad as the giants in the stories, white-bearded and fierce, draped in large bear furs and wearing a helmet that looked almost like a water bucket. Behind him came another, a young man as pretty as a woman, with curly black hair and dark eyes. His brows furrowed while he glanced at him, just as wary as the blonde, mayhaps even more so. He balanced a tray in his arms, a bowl and some cut bread upon it. 

"Bread! Bread! Bread!" The raven croaked again, leaving the chair to perch on the giant's shoulder. 

"Lord Crow," The big man smiled crookedly, placing his axe on the table and tucking at the fingers of his gloves, taking them off. He took a breadcrumb and gave it to his new companion. "so the rumours were true! Feared we would have seen the last o' you! Har!" 

Jon ignored the jovial wildling's rambling, keeping his gaze at some corner instead. He knew not who he was, but clearly, the wildling knew him. Lord Crow was the title the people north of the Wall used to address him. That little piece he did remember, queerly enough. 

The burly man took Jon's silence in stride and came to stomp closer, each step causing a loud echo. The other had approached the table more softly, more warily, approaching the likes of a wounded animal. He stopped where the wildling woman still made herself comfortable, placing the tray on the table and then standing there with hesitancy, unsure whether to remain or leave judging by the way he refused to lock eyes, hands twisting around each like snakes during a fight. 

"Turned my horse as soon as I heard what happened." The wildling man grumbled, at last, breaking the pregnant silence that flushed over them. "My men got those crow bastards in chains and thrown in those cold cells you lot like to make use for turncloaks. One o' them kept whimpering that it wasn't him!" 

_ It wasn't me! It wasn't me! It wasn't me! _

The words came to him, unbidden. A growl of anger escaped his lips at the words he started to remember vaguely. 

_ For the Watch... _

"What's gotten into you, crow? They cut off your tongue as well?" Jon fleetingly lifted his eyes to meet the wildling's, noting his deep blue eyes, umbrage and curiosity swirling there. Jon remained silent, not feeling like giving an answer. 

"He's been like that since we dragged him up here; silent as a weirwood tree. You have better luck getting a word out of a wight, Tormund." The wildling woman said finally, breaking her silence as she pushed herself off the table. 

"Wight? Wight! Wight!" 

Tormund, as he was known, shrugged his broad shoulders. "The crow was never a man o' many words, Val. Brooding is his favourite pastime, even when he was with our lass Ygritte." 

Who was this Ygritte he was talking about? No matter, if Jon did not remember her, it meant she was of no significant import to him. 

The blonde wildling, Val, scoffed loudly, striding up to glare at the other wildling thrice her size. "I reckon dying does that to a man; would you be able to speak witty words after just realizing you have been brought back from the dead? Through blood sacrifice no less?" 

"Blood sacrifice...?" Jon rasped, the whisper wheezing out of him. 

The ability to speak was a struggle in and of itself, throat dry as a bone as Jon choked out a few words in guttural tones. Tormund and Val regarded him silently, one with muted caution, the other with mere curiosity. 

"Wight! Wight! Wight!" 

Val shoed the raven off of Tormund's shoulder, silencing it. She shook her head and tore her gaze off of Tormund, looking at the young man with dark ringlets instead. "Satin, bring me that bowl." She ordered. "Lord Crow would have need of some nourishment to get his blood going again." 

He obeyed, cupping the bowl with his hands carefully and handing it over to Val. Taking it from Satin's hands, Val made for his perch and crouched. She extended the bowl. "Eat." 

Jon tried to raise his arms, but to his mounting dismay, the limb did not do as he commanded. He tried again, this time with more effort, willing the numb appendage to rise and take the offered bowl. Again, he failed. Upon further notice, Jon felt how cold his body felt, as if frozen, or drained from all the blood. 

Val cocked an eyebrow, annoyed at his lack of response. "Have you truly lost your sense of self, Lord Crow? I do wonder..." 

"Spare me your mockeries, wildling." Jon hissed, surprising Val, who reeled back a little. "I can't feel my limbs. They're numb and refuse to obey me." 

She nodded, and instead of rising and putting away the bowl for later, as Jon expected, she grabbed the wooden spoon herself and scooped a spoonful of the broth. Val blew against its content before she neared the object to his mouth. "Here, you need your strength about." 

"I'm not a helpless child to be fed like this." Jon glowered. He could feel his face burn from embarrassment and outrage at the predicament he was facing. 

"At this very moment, you are, my _lord_. Not unless you take the spoon off my hand and start feeding yourself." Val snapped back, prodding the spoon persistently against his lips. 

Jon resisted at first, struggling to allow Val to feed him. It was childish, he knew, childish and wholly not practical to try and preserve his wounded pride as such. The fight proved to be futile, Jon found, for his stomach ached and grumbled at the lack of food, forcing him to submit, much to his utter chagrin. 

His lips parted with a deep sigh, welcoming the prodding object, steam slightly raising from the ladle, and Jon was mindful not to burn is tongue as he took in a mouthful of mutton broth. Val offered him bits of broken bread, oh so carefully, as if he would bite off her fingers any moment, treating him like he was a feral animal. Mayhaps she had the right of it, for Jon could hear himself growl now and then whenever Val did something that did not please him, like dabbing away the soup's moisture at the corners of his mouth. How utterly infuriating. 

The broth was like paper dipped in boiling water, hot and tasteless on the slope of his tongue. The bread did not do him much good either, stale and mottled with patches of green-grey mildew. Jon ate it all regardless. Now was not the time to be all fussy. The whole ordeal was discomforting, for both him and Val, he reflected. 

The blonde, at last, spooned him the last remains of the broth and settled the bowl down on the ground. Jon was grateful for her timing, because suddenly, the hinges of the door leading into the room groaned again and a couple of black brothers came pouring inside, looking haggard as draft mules after a storm. He recognized none of them. 

"Jon! By the old gods and the new, you're alive!" Jon felt like scoffing. He barely felt alive, Jon admitted inwardly, all frozen limbs, dry-mouthed and scatter-minded, a husk of a man. Jon felt more like a doll robbed of its stuffing than anything else, hollow, over-encumbered and oh so tired. He was not sure whether the word alive was appropriate to describe his state of being. "The Watch has been beside itself since word came out of your murder, Jon. We have to do something with the lot downstairs. They've been moaning like wenches, asking for the Lord Commander's orders. Some have even started moaning at each other, whiny bungholes. Been starting to feel like a nursemaid telling them to shut up and wait." 

"If they got the time to piss over each other like dogs, they got time preparing for those nasty buggers beyond the Wall. Har! Tell 'em to get their arses up and start working on the defences o' your pretty little castle! The dead don't do waiting." Tormund hollered, making for his axe. Val had also brandished her daggers. The room started to fill with tension. 

The middle man, the one who was speaking, was thin and grey-haired, looking as dour as a gravedigger. Even his face spoke of gloom and doom, long and wrinkled and no speck of good cheer to be seen. He spoke with deep familiarity, like he was a friend, a trusted companion. Someone Jon trusted before long, but yet again, he could not place a name to the face before him. He had that problem with a lot of people, it seemed. Jon recognized none of these people. It was hard to find that not troubling. 

"Let them bark at each other for a little while longer, Edd. Lord Commander Snow needs time to heal and get his wits about." Satin said softly. Concern was written clearly across his eyes as he took the tray from the desk and made for the door, gesturing for the wildlings and Edd to come along. 

The name Edd made Jon pause, recognition flooding through him. A myriad of thoughts began to swirl inside his mind, threading through him like he was a torn piece of fabric; each memory getting knit together gave him valuable bits and pieces. He was slowly starting to make sense of his jumbled thoughts, slight though as they were. It was painful, this abrupt surge of remembrance, a splitting headache slowly swelling beneath the shield of his skull, throbbing and warm, a hot piece of coal searing a hole through his mind. Several names began to ring inside his head, names he was fond of. 

_ Edd__, __Pyp__, __Grenn__, Satin... _

_ Maester __Aemon... _

_ Samwell... _

_ Qhorin __Halfhand__... _

_ Uncle __Benjen__... _

Other names then pervaded through his head, tainted names, traitors' names. Names which made his blood _boil_ in rage. 

_ Bowen Marsh... _

_ Wick __Wittlesticks__... _

_ Othell __Yarwyck__... _

"Ghost..." Jon whispered, burying his face in both hands, a loud and painful groan spilling out of his mouth as the headache threatened to become too much. "Where is Ghost...? I-I need-" Jon bit his tongue, stuttering. Gods, he was losing his mind to this pain. 

The flapping of wings caught his ears again. "Ghost! Ghost!" The raven continued to screech out the name as it flew away, shooting through the window and disappearing like a shadow in the darkness, all the while shrieking 'Ghost!'. 

He was on the verge of passing out. It proved to be unbearable, as if a thousand little needles poked him from all sides, piercing his skin and sitting there inside his flesh like the cold sting of an ice spider. The memory of being stabbed across his body right before he warged into Ghost came to him, hitting him like a wall of bricks. Breathing was hard. A hand settled against the gapes across his chest, the ridges of his wounds vile beneath his touch, ripe and harsh and so very much present. 

The dwellers inside the room startled, turning to him. A surge of strength came over him, making him push the cloak away. Edd came to his side in an instant, followed by the young man called Satin. 

"Jon, are you well?" His friend's hand was on top of his shoulder, squeezing it. He shrugged it off rather roughly and padded through the room, panic snapping at his heels. 

Where was his direwolf? Where was Ghost? Ghost, Ghost, Ghost... He needed Ghost. By the gods, he needed Ghost...otherwise, he would lose his sanity to the sizzling murmurs inside his head. 

Just as he was about to burst at the seams, a wet nose bumped against his shoulder, and Jon knew in an instant, the tension whistling out. His arms rounded around coarse fur, white as snow and rough as ropes. Red gazed into grey and the world started to make sense again. Atop his head was the raven, his beak preening his wings. Cleverly, he tilted his head to the side and croaked again. 

"Ghost!" 

Breathing in deeply, the swell of his heart loosened its mad pounding, going slower and slower until it no longer hurt to even heave for air. Ghost nuzzled his snout against his throat in comfort, and Jon rubbed his cheek against his furs. 

"Jon?" 

At the mention of his name, Jon stood up, the fatigue inside his bones gone, as if it was never there in the first place. 

"Edd, Satin, prepare the gallows." Jon said, finding his voice again. "We have traitors to hang." 

Both of his brothers blinked, taken aback. Satin approached him with worry. "Jon, I don't believe that's the right thing to do right no-" 

"I said..." Jon cut off, baring his teeth in a feral snarl, as a wolf would towards a lesser pack member. Satin cringed back, cowed, fright oozing out of him in waves. No doubt Jon was proving their concerns with the way he was behaving, but Jon could honestly say he did not care in the least. He wanted to spill blood. "Prepare the gallows. I want those turncloaks hanged before midday. Have I made myself clear, Satin?" 

"Yes, Lord Commander." He nodded quickly and fled the room. Jon then settled his eyes on both Tormund and Val. 

"Prepare your men. We're going to march south." Jon went about the room, taking in the lingering supplies. He grabbed a mantle made of white bear's fur and throw it over his shoulders. The brightness of the bear fur made Jon remember his trusted direwolf. In the far recess of his mind, he could feel the tug. He could taste the iron on his tongue. The taste of blood. Jon growled as he smacked his lips. 

"Oh? You want us to go deeper into the lands you kneelers are so fond of?" Tormund bellowed, grinning as he shook his axe with enthusiasm. He always seemed eager to spill blood and have his own spilt. 

Jon proceeded with his observations. Some boiled leathers and rough-spun trousers were inside the trunk he opened and Jon took them as well. 

"Aye, I have a matter to settle after putting to death those traitors." Jon was finished fixing the laces of his trousers and began to fit the leather jerkin across his torso. Jon had found his purpose. And it was south. 

Val spoke up. "You mean..." 

"Blood! Blood! Blood!" 

"We will march on Winterfell. I want Ramsay's head on a spike for his threats. And for that, I need men." Resting a hand atop of his direwolf's head, Jon narrowed his eyes, peering out of the window. 

But first, he needed to settle a different matter. 

First, he would see to it that treason would not go with impunity. 

* * *

**THE BASTARD LADY**

_ They murdered him... _

Alayne barely held back the flood of tears, a kerchief pressed against her mouth to keep the train of sobs muffled. She had to suppress the urge quite powerfully, clutching her stomach with her other hand as she ran through the halls of the Gates of the Moon, her chambers farthest of the halls of esteemed dignitaries and nobles. 

Once she barrelled inside the room, Alayne threw herself onto her bed, wept and wept and wept until her eyes stung and her throat burnt, sobs racking her body as her fingers clutched the linens of her featherbed. 

Why were the gods so cruel? Did she not deserve even the knowledge that at least one of her kinsmen lived and thrived in this cursed world? _Murdered by his own brothers...oh Jon, I'm so sorry..._

Word had reached the Vale only an hour ago, riders garbed in dirty traveller's clothes galloping into the bailey not with haste. The rain that had harried the Vale for weeks had encumbered the messenger in delivering the word that the 998th Lord Commander, Jon Snow, had died five moons ago, the cause shrouded in utter mystery. To most of the lords, at least. 

Alayne had just been inside her father's solar not too long ago, discussing the arrangements of the Tourney of Winged Knights, when a cloaked man came clambering inside the chambers unannounced, escorted by Ser Lothor Brune himself, Father's trusted knight and her lackey, rain freshly dripping from his garbs and Lothor's armour. 

Whoever was led by Ser Lothor had to be a man of import, Alayne surmised; not many had the right to be worthy of the Lord Protector's direct attention and be escorted by his personal guard. Father had dismissed her, but not before asking for a parting kiss on the lips, a chaste one he would find, one that still caused her anguished shivers, before heralding the man to come closer. 

As always, Alayne curtsied prettily and obediently, as she was taught, and made herself scarce, intent on finding Myranda and share some little whispers about the upcoming tourney. She stepped outside the solar of the Lord Protector and closed the door, but the whisper of a sweet name long forgotten reached her ears through the woodwork before she could take her leave, and it made her pause, feet staying just as she was about to round the corner of the door. 

"I've come bearing news from the north, my lord. Word has it that the Night's Watch and its Lord Commander, Jon Snow, are plunged into a crisis." Alayne heard the man speak, and halted her advance, pressing her back against the wall. Worry clawed at her throat, a lump from there. Jon was having troubles? She inched closer to the door and placed her ear against the wood. 

"Jon Snow? The late Lord Stark's natural-born son?" Lothor asked. "What interest do we have in a boy thousands of leagues removed from here?" 

"Ah, that is where you err, my dearest ser." Alayne could already envision the smirk on her father's face. "The bastard boy is certainly an interesting little creature, don't you think? He's barely a man of six-and-ten and already commands the respect of men twice his age as Lord Commander. One of the youngest to ever assume that prestigious position." He was mocking them. Father never held the Night's Watch in particularly high esteem, and why should he? To her knowledge, only thieves, rapers and murderers these days decided to take the black and serve as a brother of the Watch. Not all of them were as honourable as her half-brother. Still, Alayne could feel a bit of indignation rise within in her at the ridicule her father betook the brothers of the Watch with, if only for Jon's sake. "Tell me, what has come over our Lord Commander Snow?" 

"It seems Lord Commander Snow no longer walks the plains of this world, Lord Baelish. He's been murdered in a mutiny, lying cold in the chilling arms of his namesake. My men in Mole's Town confirmed it." 

Alayne grew pale as the words latched on to her mind. It felt as if a bucket of ice was thrown over her. She had to fling her hand over her mouth to muffle the pained gasp. Cold fingers had started to enclose over her heart as she digested the news._ Jon...is d-dead? M-murdered? Oh gods...No.__..p__-please, no, no, no...NO! _

"Ah, what a pity." Father chuckled. "Oh well, every man one day outlasts his purpose in this world, I suppose. A shame the honourable Lord Stark's sons will all be remembered as victims of murder and treason. Martyrdom really seems to be the rage for Stark men." The jape was cruel, so, so cruel and callous. Alayne felt it lodge into her, swift and soundless as a dagger from the dark piercing her heart. The pain was unbearable. "There is a bright side to this, however. Now, the path to Winterfell will be certain, without any contenders to challenge our bid. The gods smile upon us, my friend. This is only good news." 

She could no longer bear to hear her lord father's sneering words anymore. Alayne flew through the corridors in a near fit of tears, eyes burning as she made for her chambers. Grief snapped at her heels like wolves after a bloodied deer and she ran faster and faster. 

And now, as Alayne writhed in her bed, wallowing in her own sorrows and grief, she lamented and mourned about the past. Mourned what could have been. A past before the lies, the betrayals, the schemes and plots. _I've never even once told Jon I loved him as a sister loves a brother before we parted...I was never cruel to him, not with intent, but I also never inclined to be kind to him...it would have been so sweet to see him again, just once, my only brother...now dead as well...oh Jon, I'm so sorry for what the gods have done to you...would that I could see you just one more time. I'd beg your forgiveness. Now, I've been robbed of that too..._

It hit her hard, the cold and harsh truth. It was not a slap to the face, it was a punch to the guts, this grief. She was truly the last of her line, the last descendant of House Stark. Her father was dead, her mother and brothers murdered, her sister missing, surely dead as well. The wolves of the north were all but dead. 

Except for her. 

Alayne lurched, bile rising through her throat. The truth made her fly across the room and bend over her chamber pot. Alayne emptied the content of her stomach with such force, for a moment she thought she would be throwing up her entrails. Alayne heaved three times before her stomach settled, acid still searing her throat and tongue. Then she lurched again, nothing but air leaving her stomach. 

As her nausea abided, crippling loneliness almost threw her off balance and onto the stone floor, her mind scattered and shattered. _The last of my line...I am truly without family now..._

The loneliness hurt so much...she felt like tearing her clothes and collapse to the ground, weep for the death of her last remaining family until she cried blood. 

Fresh tears sprung in her eyes. Alayne laid her head against the edge of her bed and cried again. It seemed like hours had passed since Alayne stormed into her rooms and cried her sorrows into her pillows, the linens soaked with her grief. Her body ached, her heart throbbed, cheeks sticky with dried tears and she felt cold all over, shivers rolling down her spine relentlessly. Her bones were so heavy, like they were made of lead, and Alayne wished nothing more but to crawl into her bed and sleep for a thousand years. 

She wished to close her eyes and never wake up again. To dream and dream about better days, when the world was still good and kind and hopeful. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, willed it hard enough, the gods would send her back to a time where she was still surrounded by her most beloved. Or perhaps, it was for the better if she disappeared as well... 

She could not do that. Alayne could not sleep her sorrows away. There was no point. She could not wish this gaping hole inside her to disappear. She had no reason to, Alayne realized with a start. This grief was not hers. This...grief belonged to another girl, a lost girl, a girl with no kin, who was rumoured to be dead. A girl who should better not come back from the dead. 

The gods did not wish for her to live, Alayne reckoned, for all the tragedy that had happened to her would have driven any man or woman mad with grief. One could only shoulder so much... 

Alayne felt ripples course through her, limbs shuddering like leaves in a storm. Her eyes came face to face with a mirror, a watery reflection before her visage, wavelets undulating around peacefully. It was frightening. Alayne was scared. 

Breathing became difficult. The loneliness she felt was choking her, clotting her throat tight, as if a hand was wrapped around it and squeezing the air out. Was this what the Strangler felt like? What Joffrey felt when he was scratching at his throat? Panic was clouding her vision, everything spinning into a blur of dizzying colours and nauseating objects. Alayne could see that she had fallen to the ground, the carpet beneath her fingers rough and prickly. 

The girl from the past was truly alone now...what...what was her name again? Sa- San- S-ansa...? Yes, that was her name. Sansa. Sansa Stark. Was she Sansa Stark? Who was Sansa Stark? 

A headache was on the rise, a swell at the back of her head fracturing her skull in two it seemed, pounding away at her mind, as if a blacksmith was mercilessly smashing her brains to bits with a hammer. 

_ Who am I, again? Am I Sansa Stark? No. I am Alayne, always Alayne...Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish... _

Her legs came up and Alayne wrapped her lithe arms around her shaky knees, placing her tear-stained cheek against the white and grey wolves she had fondly embroidered into her woollen stockings. But...she had no recollection of embroidering them. Who had done that, then? Alayne did not remember being so fond of wolves either, nor so adept with needle and thread. _ A bastard girl with no mother, no sister and no brothers...an only child. Never have I ever loved a sibling, nor have I known the love of a sibling. Who...am I grieving for, again? _ Alayne wondered and wondered, looking at the wolves. For a moment, she thought they were running. Running away. Running away from her. 

The pond started to ripple now, violently so, streaks of auburn and porcelain blending through its waters. Bubbles emerged to the surface, plopping hauntingly, one by one bursting open. It looked as if someone was drowning. A girl was there, she saw then, the water throttling her. She was beautiful, blue-eyed and auburn-haired, her face pallid and kind, but haunted with loss and grief. She looked like Alayne. She looked exactly like Alayne. Was she Sansa Stark? 

Alayne tossed herself across and onto her bed, hands clutching her head violently and fingers digging into her temples, pitiful moans leaving her as the pain ripped through Alayne like a sword. _ Who am I? Alayne, always Alayne...who else would I be? Who else could I be? Was I someone else? Should I be someone else? _

The world was tilting on its axes, spinning and spinning like a barrel tumbling down a hill, and Alayne screamed her lungs out, as if she was inside that barrel. Her throat was no more clamped like a vice, but open and loose, freely allowing Alayne to sore it with her incessant shrieks. The pain had intensified, tenfold, maybe even a hundredfold, hot knives piercing her mind from every angle. 

The bubbles across the pond increased, and Alayne could do nothing but watch in horror. She wanted to reach out, to help, to save the drowning girl from her fate, but she could not. Alayne's limbs were paralyzed, frozen to her side. 

And then, the bubbles ceased, and with it, the pain inside her head. 

A moment of clarity fell upon her. Alayne lowered her hands onto her lap, folding them. _Why...why was I sad again...?_ Her eyes took in the wet spot of her pillow and Alayne frowned in confusion. Her sheets were in need of a change; they had started to smell addled. Alayne would see to it that her linens were changed before the day was done. 

A wetness trickled down her nose, she came to feel, a balmy trickle crawling down at a snail's pace. A finger went towards the wet spot, coating its tip red with blood suddenly. She was bleeding, to her utter confusion. 

"Alayne? Are you there, dearest?" It was Myranda whose knuckles rapped across her door and inquired after her, voice pealing like little chimes. 

Taking in her state, Alayne took in a mouthful of air and then heaved, steadying her breathing. Her hands combed through her locks, putting some stray tresses of brown hair back in place, and Alayne went to open her door. 

"Yes, I was just about to clean myself and see to Sweetrobin." Alayne smiled. "I do have troubles picking a proper dress. The Lords Declarant will come to visit the Gates of the Moon and treat with my lord father about the grain and barley harvest." 

"Sweetling, your nose is bleeding!" Myranda pointed out a with a shriek. She wiped her nose with a kerchief and folded it, tucking the piece of cloth into her dress pocket. "Are you well, Alayne?" 

Alayne nodded. "I don't know what came over me. Mayhaps the weather doesn't agree with me." 

Myranda gave her a once over, shrewd eyes drinking her in, but she soon let that all melt away and simpered, hooking her arm around hers. "Well, let us first see to your little problem of picking a proper dress. I'm sure Harry the Arse would love to see some blue and white on you. Rude as he may be, you cannot deny he is worth tolerating a few boorish jabs if it means being his wife one day." 

Alayne tried to smile again, but the thought of Ser Harrold Hardyng soured her mood a bit. He had not been any different since their first encounter a moon's turn ago, try as he might to rein in his less than savoury wonts. Still a pompous knight too much in love with himself. 

It was not hard to keep his notice on a leash. He was terribly easy to entertain; a caress across the arm here, a sweet little word there, listening to him boasting about his conquests in bed, and the Young Falcon ate out of the palm of her hand. Just as her father taught her to do. 

If Alayne was to one day wed the heir to the Vale, nothing less could be expected from her. She needed Robert's distant kin wrapped around her finger, if only for the little lordling's sake. The little Arryn lord needed her protection. Where this racking desire to shield little Robert from those who wished him ill was a mystery to Alayne. Still, her protectiveness over the lordling of House Arryn compelled her to act in his interests. 

If it meant welcoming a man to her marital bed she wished nothing to do with. 

Then so be it. 

For a moment, Alayne forgot her ruffled linens and tangled sheets, but it quickly returned to her mind. "One moment, Randa. I just need to make up my featherbed; it is unseemly for a lady to leave her sleeping chambers so untidy." 

Myranda tittered and pulled her grip on her arm just a little tighter. "Don't worry about such trivialities, sweet Alayne." Her friend gestured for a maid, who curtsied slightly as she came to a halt. She was new, for Alayne did not recognize her; nearly all of the servants were paid by Father's own coin, for they both acted as cleaning hands and eavesdropping ears. Alayne had not met this one, though. "Nira, see to the Lady Alayne's chambers." _I'm not a lady_, Alayne nearly blurted out, but kept her tongue. "She and I have a great many things to discuss. Make sure the Lord Protector's daughter will have want for nothing when she returns." 

"Yes, milady." And she hurried inside and began to tidy up the place while Myranda tugged her further away into the halls, beginning to whisper about the little gossips around Lord Lyonel Corbray and his wife, who was accused of adultery. 

* * *

**THE LORD OF WINTERFELL**

King Stannis had fallen in pitched battle, Jon had discovered grimly. All that effort to have him win the sympathies of the northern lords went down the chamber pot. King Stannis Baratheon's line ended with him the moment the knife was plunged into his back, and with it, all reason for the northerners to rally behind his cause. His heir was dead as well, the victim of zealous madness, burnt alive to sate the aspiration of that blasted red witch. Edd told him that her sourly crone of a mother all but cheered on as her daughter was dragged to the pyre and turned into ash, citing that it was willed by the Lord of Light and that it would grant them great favours, only for the madwoman to fathom her insanity too late and beg for the red woman to release her daughter. 

She would have had an easier time begging the Others for mercy. Lady Melisandre was an acolyte of that infernal religion, obsessed with flames and prophecies, and when Selyse Baratheon fell to her knees and clawed at her red skirts, the woman from Asshai looked as cold as winter itself as she denied Selyse her plea. It drove the hag even further insane, to the point that she climbed the scaffolds herself and tried cutting the ropes with her bare hands. Edd told him her screams intermingled with Shireen's had haunted the Watch for days. The smell certainly did.

_Stags burn quite nicely, I knew that, but foxes don't. Their furs aren't meant for the pyres. They're meant to be around my neck. _

Jon was walking through the crude encampments outside Winterfell's walls, wildling and northern men trundling about and helping with restoring some semblance of order and normalcy in Winterfell. The northerners did not value the presence of the free folk, but if it were not for them, the battle for Winterfell would have been a slaughter and the gates to the castle unbreachable. 

Hugo Wull and Torghen Flint, giant-blooded they may be, could not compare to the battering strength of a living giant. Wun Wun had created mayhem in Ramsay's ranks, and all it took was to arm the giant with an uprooted tree trunk and some impromptu leathers protecting his most vulnerable parts. Jon feared what Wun Wun could do with a proper weapon and customized armour. A thought for later, perhaps. 

Jon and his men were dispatching the remnants of the Bolton and Frey forces, the clattering of chainmail and grunts of hauled men in shackles filling the air alongside the smell of burnt wood and charred bodies. Most of the imprisoned were Karstark men-at-arms. 

The turncloaks had pierced and stabbed the Baratheon king again and again when the battle became too thick and the line between friend and foe blurred. Now, they were to answer for their treachery. The blood of traitors ran deep through Karstark veins. First Robb, now King Stannis, was forsaken and betrayed by the Boltons, aided by the schemes of the Karstarks and the Freys. 

Yet the North did not toil for long underneath the whip of Bolton rule. As King Stannis Baratheon fell, so too did Roose Bolton. Shrewd and cautious as he was, not even he expected to die right underneath the roof of his very own hearth. The late Lord of the Dreadfort was murdered in cold blood by his own son, Ramsay Snow. What madness could have taken him to make him kill his own father, Jon knew not, but he was thankful for that madness all the same. It gave Jon the perfect opportunity to strike. Without the quick leadership and smarts of Lord Roose, House Bolton was doomed. Ramsay Snow's assumption of leadership only seemed to have quickened that fate. 

Jon only needed thirty good men for the task at hand. Them, and Ramsay's folly to bare its vile head to the world. Jon had presented himself as a fat slab of meat across the rills due south of Winterfell, taunting him relentlessly with a Stark banner waving in the air. Jon knew he would take the bait; Ramsay was not called the Mad Dog for nought, never known for his patience or insight. Meanwhile, the men Jon had chosen for the inculcation of Winterfell had already positioned themselves for the right moment. 

And when Ramsay foolishly opted for a sortie, Tormund blew his horn, and Ramsay found himself surrounded on all sides, with no castle to return to. Ghost and Jon had torn through the Bolton-Frey ranks as if they were made of cheese. Longclaw had been bathed in blood all day long. It took Jon the better part of the noon to clean the blade of any lingering red stain. 

Tormund and a band of his tribesmen were currently putting in chains several sons of House Ryswell, the first of the northern bannermen who turned to the Boltons with love. It was a harsh punishment, he knew, condemning them as prisoners, but Jon cared not for their pleas of mercy; if it were up to him, treason was to be met with the executioner's block immediately, but the North was a just kingdom. They needed to be tried. On the battlefield, Jon had killed more than a dozen Ryswell swordsmen, showing that their true allegiance continued to be to the traitor Boltons. Outright hanging them would do Jon no good, as much as he was itching to do so. 

The Karstarks were twice damned traitors, so stripping them of their lands would be met with little resistance, but the Ryswells were tricky; they had been in bed with the Boltons for as long as the North was a unified kingdom. For certain, lingering sentiments remained. Roose and Ramsay's life may be forfeit, but House Bolton still existed. At least, for now. Rodrik and his three sons had to be put on trial. There was no other alternative in Jon's mind, lest he wanted for them to conspire for House Bolton's eventual return. 

From the corner of Jon's eye, he spotted another group chaining those barbarians calling themselves the Bastard's Boys, a coterie of savages who followed Ramsay Snow like bitches following an alpha hound. Their blood would stain the ground red in any case. Jon had no desire to spare Ramsay's bootlickers, for they deserved nothing less but his sword for the atrocities they committed. 

Jon did not brook treason anymore. Any man who had taken the wrong side in the war would come to see the folly of their choices. House Dustin had yet to make itself known. Lady Barbrey decided to cower behind the walls of her keep. So be it. He would drag her by the stems of her engrained hair if he had to. 

Suddenly, there was a commotion not too far from where Jon was. The shouts of men and swords being drawn made Jon whip his head into the direction of some clamouring. He narrowed his eyes, his lips forming a thin line, the muscles of his jaws set tightly as he ground his teeth. 

Ramsay Snow was making a spectacle of himself, thrashing about in his chains and bumping against his jailors like a drunken sod. 

“Get your filthy hands off of me, fools! I will not suffer this insult! Do you have any idea who I am!? I am Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Lord Paramount of the North! I will have you flayed alive and skewered for your insolence! You hear!? Flayed and skew–OOF!” 

"If any more words come pouring out o' your bunghole mouth, I'll cut it off with a rusty dagger and make you eat it." Tall Toregg, Tormund's eldest boy, spat, lowering his fist after he punched the Bolton bastard across his face to gain his silence. Jon was grateful for the wildling; his sword hand already rested atop Longclaw's pommel. The urge to run him through with the sword was a sweet temptation, and he was almost seduced by her coos, yet Toregg had taken his chance before Jon could. 

Ramsay spluttered on the ground, spitting a few teeth out and glaring at Tormund's son with his hate-filled pale eyes. "You will regret ever laying a hand on me, you flea-ridden barbarian! I will have you all hanged, drawn and quartered for high treason!" 

"Oh, I don't think so, Ramsay Snow. Your days are finished." Jon signalled for Edwyle Umber, the Greatjon's youngest son and heir to the Last Hearth, to tow the fool away, but Jon was cut off by Ramsay's enraged screech. 

"You dare call me Snow, bastard! I am Ramsay Bolton! Bolton! A noble’s true son, legitimized by King Tommen himself! Who are you still!? A damn Snow of the North! A traitor's ill-conceived byblow. But not I! You, a foul bastard, hold no right to cast judgment over a true lord such as myself! I will not stand for-ARGH!” 

Before he could stop himself, Jon lashed out and buried his gloved fist in Ramsay's stomach with such force, the Bolton illborn spawn bowed forward and dry-retched on the ground. 

"I've heard enough of your barks, Lord Bolton." Jon snarled, yanking Ramsay's head up by the roots of his hair. "If you so much as speak another word, I will have you suffer the same fate you so eagerly bestowed upon the spearwives and Mance Rayder." He leaned in closer. "Wildlings don't make a difference between a woman and a man's arse, and they'll rip yours apart for what you did to their leader." 

With a harsh shove, Jon pushed Ramsay back to the ground and dusted his gloved hands, disgusted that he had to touch this vermin's body, even if there was a barrier between his skin and Ramsay's. He was of a mind to leave the altercation then and there, but the gods had other ideas. 

"Stark bastard! I will have you know that your sister was a thoroughly good fuck, a good little whore, so wet and tight for me as I drove into her with my rod! You should have heard her scream as I took her like the bitch she was!" Jon clenched his fists, but the rational part of him, small as it was, urged Jon to ignore the man, and so, he continued his path, only to be stopped again by the incessant ringing of Ramsay's voice. "Oh yes, little Arya Stark was a tight fit for my cock!" The pure satisfaction dripping from his tone caused Jon to ball his hands into fists, the blades of his nails surely leaving crescent moons in their wake. "You should've seen her suck it before I took her every way I knew, over and over and over again! You've failed as her older brother! Failed to protect her! Her and your other bitch sister! Oh, what I would've done to have your other whore of a sister as my bride! I would've fucked the Stark blood right out of her cunt! All while you'd be rotting away at the Wall, knowing your precious little sisters were being raped and defiled!" 

The grinding of his teeth would have made the late King Stannis proud, so harsh, the men around him backed away slightly. Anger boiled beneath the veneer of his skin hotly. Jon could hear it sizzle like boiling water. His vision was slowly bleeding red as rage and disgust filled his soul. _The fool should've held his tongue..._

Jon was not wroth as to who Ramsay had tortured, it was the very nature of his sadism and depravity in general that made him want to tear the Bolton bastard's head from his shoulder with his bare hands and revel in his blood. He was a beast in man's skin, a rabid dog, one the world would be well rid of if he did. Well, he was about to meet an even greater monster. 

Jeyne Poole came to him a shattered and feeble creature, brown eyes like twigs broken underneath the paws of a monster. She was so tormented, damaged, lifeless even, that Jon had to look at her twice to determine if she was breathing or not. She could have passed for a corpse. Jeyne was a remnant of his past, a past Jon did not have the luxury of remembering, just as he failed to remember the other man with her, Theon Greyjoy, who was just as ruined as his companion, brittle and looking older than he was actually accounted for. 

A part of him did stir at their names when they made themselves known, a flare of recognition bursting free inside him, but it was smothered in an instant. His amnesia was stronger than he had expected. Where he expected resentment and vile hatred, Jon could only ever feel a deep sense of apathy towards them, especially the Greyjoy. Theon had been the catalyst to many tragedies; from the deaths of Bran and Rickon to the fall of the Stony Shore. The knowledge still did not fill him with anger, but it should have. 

It came to Jon as a surprise when the northern lords all but demanded the Greyjoy's head; Mors Umber and Robett Glover had been the most vocal about it. Lord Wyman Lamprey wanted to throw the man bound and gagged into the waters, see if the Drowned God wanted the craven as an offering. 

Lord Robett almost rushed for the whimpering ironborn, hellbent on beheading him with his own axe if not for Jon's stern bark of reprimanding. Not long after, and Jon learned the extent of Theon's crimes. His head was demanded by many, and Jon had given it to them to placate the injuries, little as it did in the broader stroke of affairs. He did not care whether Theon was alive or dead, and his death was more a boon to him than his life. Jeyne Poole pleaded for his life with the desperation of a lover, but Jon would have none of it. Theon's blood stained the ground not long after his verdict. He never saw Jeyne Poole again after that. 

Now, Jon stood before their tormentor, a man who relished in taunting and torturing. A fool who should have kept his mouth shut. A quick death no longer sufficed for this creature. No, Jon needed to give him a taste of what was waiting for him in the Seven Hells. 

The song of a Valyrian steel sword leaving its sheath made the onlookers cringe back in surprise. Ramsay's ravings had ceased the moment his eyes caught the glint of Longclaw's sheen. 

"Pull the Lord Bolton to his feet." Ramsay was roughly yanked up. "Give him your sword, Larence, and unshackle him." 

"My lord, are you certai-" 

"Yes." Growling, Jon shrugged off his large white bearskin, handing it to a soldier. Jon's grip on Longclaw tautened, eyes burning at Ramsay. The man appraised his sword rather clumsily, betraying his skill as a poor swordsman. "The fool has spoken one too many words. No more. Let's see how his mettle fares in true battle." 

Truth be told, Ramsay did not have a single speck of blood on his armour when Jon and his retinue caught the Bolton bastard. What did that say about his battle prowess? 

A crowd had formed around them, enclosing them in their confines. Ramsay and Jon began to encircle each other, a hound and a wolf, both snarling like ravenous beasts. 

Ramsay had an advantage over Jon, as he was a big and hulking man, thicker arms and more weight to his swings. Not that it impressed Jon; from what he had seen from Ramsay, he was fleshy and inept, his strength not stemming from muscles, but pure weight. The few men he did manage to defeat all had their backs to him. Easy kills. Honourless victories. 

They circled each other, two predators across a carcass, both intent on killing the other. As Jon gauged up the Bolton bastard, he quickly came upon a realization; Ramsay was not a patient man. A broad-shouldered man, massive in size and tall in length, with madness glinting in those pale eyes, he was all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, frothing like a rabid dog at a piece of flesh. The title Mad Dog was not far off indeed. 

With a battle-cry Ramsay lunged forward, his sword raised high above him and striking down with the weight of a boulder. The movement had a lot of strength but was slow. Very slow. Laughably slow even. Jon merely sidestepped the attack and even had the time to slash the large man across his hip with a swing of his own. Ramsay bellowed a sharp cry as Longclaw tore through Ramsay's flesh, like a searing knife through butter. It was a shallow cut, but a cut nonetheless, a taunt more than anything. 

"Your movements are laughable, Lord Bolton." Jon scoffed, flexing his sword hand, Longclaw wheeling in a circle. "Your swings are dull, your pose is weak. You're as sluggish and blunt as a cow, not a single drop of warrior's blood inside you. I reckon your father might be rolling in his grave now; whatever he was, Roose Bolton had a name for being a skilled fighter at least." Jon swiped his sword to the side, taking off the blood that coated it and spraying its ruddy colour on the ground. He threw a look over his shoulder, baring his teeth in a vicious snarl. "You, on the other hand, would do your forebears dishonour. It’s not too early to yield. Do so now and spare yourself further humiliation. I'll make your death quick and painless; it's more than you deserve.” 

"Hah! You think me weak, Snow!? Easily bent by a mere cut!?" With another roar, this one more animalistic, Ramsay shot forward with his sword poised in front of him, clutching it like a lance as he charged towards Jon. He had become more unhinged. “I will cut off your head and use it as a drinking skull and place it in my room as a trophy!" 

Jon deflated the attack with a grunt, clashing Longclaw against it towards the side and throwing off the madman from his charge into a stumble. To further cause him imbalance, Jon planted a kick to his arse and threw him onto the ground with a loud clatter. This man was like an enraged aurochs, blind to anything but his fury and desire to jam his horns into him. 

The blow had a great amount of force behind it, the bones and flesh in Jon’s hand trembling a bit from parrying the blow. Deflating another one of those was not an option, if Jon wanted to keep his hand from trembling. 

Size came with a cost. It granted brute strength and raw power, but what an aurochs had in power, it lacked in speed and agility. The duel between Jon and Ramsay was not a dance of blades. It lacked any refinement between skilled and agile swordsmen. It was crude. It was dull. It was boring. Jon understood why Ramsay opted to hide behind rows of his men. If all of House Bolton followed the same standard as this oaf, Jon wondered how the Red Kings of yore were able to challenge the ancient Kings of Winter for so long. 

Another dodge, another counter, another dodge, followed by another counter and the bastard's already groggy movement had become less forceful and crushing. Ramsay's strength was starting to fail him. When the hulking man went for a large side-swing towards Jon’s head, he only cut thin air as Jon crouched and ducked underneath the sword, delivering a stomp with his boot to Ramsay's knee, breaking it, earning him a grunt and forcing the bastard to the ground on the other knee, before Jon poised Longclaw at the joint of his neck and chin. 

“Yield, and I'll show mercy by cutting your head off with Longclaw instead of a blunted sword!” Jon's bellow was like a thunderclap, his sword putting pressure on Ramsay's throat, piercing the skin and making a thin line of blood appear. It was flickering, Jon saw it, as Ramsay weighed his options, but in the end, he did as he was ordered and spilt the shimmering sword out of his clutches. Satisfied, Jon sheathed Longclaw back in its scabbard and snorted down on the still kneeling man. Again, Jon grabbed a handful of Ramsay's oily hair and pulled so hard some of his locks unrooted, 

He brought Ramsay to his eye. “You've sealed your fate, Ramsay Snow. I'll make sure to make your execution as quick as possible. I'm a man of my word. As much as I want to have you mauled by your own dogs, your death will be swift." Letting go, Jon nodded to a pair of guards. "Remove this filth from my sight. Clad him in chains and let him get acquainted with the rats. I'll have his head later.” 

A pair of chainmail rattled as men-at-arms wearing the Liddle sigil trudged up and made to grab the fallen bastard, but before they could do so, Ramsay lunged forward with a deafening roar. 

“I won't live down this humiliation by the hands of a bastard! If I am to die, then I'll drag you with me, Snow!” 

Jon spun and backed away just as the brute almost got his hands around his shoulders, Ramsay tumbling forward offhandedly at yet again grasping air in his desperate gambit to kill him. Jon drew his trusted sword again and smashed its pommel right into Ramsay’s nose, whose screams bounced off the walls of Winterfell’s courtyard. Blood sprayed his chin and lips scarlet, his nose an indented mess. Jon was not finished yet, and as a final act of anger and absolution, Longclaw sang through the air and cut through flesh before it met the bones of Ramsay's forearm, cutting effortlessly through that too. 

The appendage fell to the ground with a fleshy thud, Ramsay's ear-splitting screams turning into frenzied weeps as he gripped his stump in agony. Tears and snot ran down his agonized face. His dirty fingers dug into the bloodied stump, vainly trying to stop the bleeding, but he failed miserably as more and more of the sanguine liquid continued leaking out of the wound, spilling through his fingers like weirwood sap. 

It was a grisly view, watching the man writhe in pure torment on the snow caked ground, but Jon could not summon an ounce of pity for Ramsay. Rather, he grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic and dragged him forward with brutal strength, forcing Ramsay's knees to scrap across the ground as he was dragged to his death. 

"Cease your wailings, you thrice-damned fool! If you're so determined to hasten your death, then so be it! Satin! Fetch me a block!" His steward did not need to be told twice as he ran up the encampment in search for a proper block to hold Ramsay's head. 

Ramsay struggled against his hold, wailing all the while. "Please! Have mercy! Mercy, my lord! I regret my transgressions!” 

"Silence!" Jon raged, throwing him to the cold earth of the ground with such force, dirt scattered all around. "I'm done suffering your existence! Go harrow the gods with your depravity! I'm sure they'll send you to the deepest pits of the Seven Hells!" 

Satin had come back with a robust wooden block, its top red with dried blood. It must have had more than a hundred heads laying atop of it. 

"Get me a dull blade! I will not stain Longclaw any further with this fool's blood! He's beyond the mercy of a swift death!" One of the men around handed him a practice sword, and Jon considered the blade. "Not blunt enough." Jon spat, throwing the object away. "Bring me another!" This time, Jon was given a sword blunt enough for his punishment, hard and dull, completely unsuited for a beheading. For this one, it was perfect. 

Ramsay was already prepared for him, whimpering like a pig for slaughter as shivers raked through his body. Jon wasted no time and swung the sword, no hesitation in his movements. The blade cut into his flesh. Ramsay screamed, thrashing in his bindings, hard enough for Jon's ears to ring. He only started to cut more viciously. 

The act was repeated, and again, and again, and again, Jon carving into Ramsay's flesh mercilessly like a butcher cutting up a swine. Blood-curdling screams of agony spread loud and unbridled. He had yet to meet the marrow, but Jon kept hacking away with abandon, not caring at all at the torture he was inflicting. A drop of Bolton blood even came to spray against his cheek as he continued trying to lop off Ramsay's head like a block of wood. 

Soon enough, the screams stopped plaguing the courtyard. Only a hard thump every time Jon's hand fell down to chop into Ramsay's neck echoed across. The soil beneath Ramsay's dead body was stained with gallons of blood, the executioner's block smeared in the red substance. 

Tiring, Jon threw the sword away, panting. The mess in front of him was a gruesome work of art that would have made the Red Kings of the Dreadfort proud; Ramsay's head still clung to his torso by a sliver of flesh, blood weeping out of the wound profusely, his spine jagged and protruding disgustingly. His face was pinched in agony, deep creases stained with blood and other fluids Jon did not have the will to discern, lips parted in a silent scream. He died screaming like a pig. Dark satisfaction bloomed inside him as he snarled at the corpse. 

“Get him out of my sight. Burn his body and throw the ashes across the rivers. I want to erase the memory of House Bolton as soon as I can." 

And with that, House Bolton had lost another son. The only other Bolton scion was currently in the arms of a woman named Walda Frey, squirming in swaddling clothes and locked up in one of the towers inside Winterfell's Great Keep. 

He would deal with her later. 

First, he was in need of a scalding bath, one that would peel off the layers of blood coating his clothes and skin. Each second of carrying Bolton blood on his being further made his skin crawl with revulsion. 

Jon intended to wipe the last vestiges of that vile house and wash his hands clean of their existence. 

In every sense of the word.

* * *

**THE UNCLOAKED LADY**

The grand tourney of the Vale came and went like a clattering hailstorm amidst late autumn rise; short, chaotic and beset by hard winds. Some banners had been torn off by the harsh rush of tugs, blowing gales reaving across, the ice of incoming winter strong in its wake. 

Father had been beside himself trying to organize the tourney at the most proper of times, but the clouds above had hung heavy with rain for moons on end. Like bad omens, they plagued the Vale. 

Eventually, Father had taken the risk and decided to have the tourney started on an autumn day strong with the scent of rain hanging in the air, belying the exciting festivities, a light drizzle plopping atop the roofs of the watchtowers and the various falcon statues atop the balustrades of the Gates. Alayne had to replace her grey shawl more than once during the tilts, drenched and cold and wet from the relentless harrowing of raindrops. 

Four-and-sixty knights rode from all the corners of the Vale to the Gates of the Moon with a mind to participate in the official joust, seeking glories, gold or gains elsewise. Father had made it an invite-only event; Alayne had written to all contestants personally, seen to it that only the noblest of the Valemen would arrive through the portcullis with her invitation, as per her father's decree. Ser Harrold Hardyng and his guardian Lady Waynwood had been stressed out more than once. Her hand was a testament to it, sore, splotched with ink and throbbing after writing so many letters in a single noon. 

Other attendants included sons of House Royce, several Sunderland brothers, Ser Mychel Redfort, Mya's former flame, and others she had seen come and go as the tourney cantered to an end. Aside from the four-and-sixty knights that had come to the Gates, a great deal of hedgeknights arrived as well, their mottled armour and mismatched surcoats a stark contrast to the pristinely enamelled cuirasses of the noble knights. Their numbers even surprised Father's expectations as they flooded the grounds in droves; for every landed knight, four hedgeknights stood as the counter. 

It was supposed to be a private occasion, meant for only a scant few, to determine the members of the Brotherhood of Winged Knights, not a chance for making a name. It had been a thorn in Father's eyes for the entire week as he complained about reckless adventurers and glory hounds tainting this very special occurrence. 

Still, those who found themselves uninvited for the tourney, the bulk of the knights either landless and without a master or paid by wealthy merchants, like Ser Shadrich, Father had placated those eager to test their steel by organizing a melee. The champion would be rewarded eighty gold dragons for his troubles, a reasonable prize for many. 

At the end of the sennight, the tourney cavorted to an end, eight freshly anointed knights standing proudly with their silver-winged helmets cradled at their hips. Robert's personal guard was made of a motley mishmash of noble knights, consisting of the likes of Ronnel Sunderland, who was as burly as a bear, Isembard Belmore, lanky and lean with a pox-scarred face, Godric Hunter, silent and broad-shouldered, quick Nestor Templeton who was still not rid of his red pimples, Roland Waynwood, preened as a peacock, Jasper Redfort, the most gregarious of the sworn brothers, Harrold Hardyng with his vanity, and the leader of them all, Lyn Corbray. To Alayne's growing disquiet, Harry and Lyn came second and first respectively in the tourney, though the gulf of skill between the two was as wide as the Vale of Arryn. 

Ser Lyn Corbray had been a menace during the tourney, unhorsing knight after knight with glaring ease, that same easy smile on his handsome face every time he won a victory. He did his name justice as the Vale's most talented fighter in the Vale. 

Ser Harrold, on the other hand, had left her, and probably the audience, somewhat wanting. His tilts were nothing impressive, and neither were his opponents. Alayne did not mean to sound so haughty, but even from her place at the tribune, trying to keep Robert as best as she could from shouting at the top of his lungs when a tilt became too exciting, Alayne could see that Harry's opponents did not nearly seem like a challenge. It looked almost as if it had been fixed, for his gain of course. 

And yet, she was here now, in one of the most opulent guest rooms of the Gates of the Moon, the evening now settling in. She was in the midst of preparing various foods and wines for the Sers Harrold and Lyn, on the order of her lord father. Myrish pear brandy was rumoured to be Ser Lyn's favourite beverage, while Harrold had a certain penchant to enjoy duck pies full of lard and gristle. Alayne had made sure both were in vast reserves. 

"Alayne, sweetling." Father called as he entered the chamber. "Our esteemed guests are but a short stride away from our little carousing. Be a dear and fetch me my ledger. I have certain documents that I wish to share with our guests." 

"Yes, Father." His ledger was stored somewhere in his solar, up three floors above. Robert's bedchambers were right across Father's solar. The little lordling was always under the watch of the Lord Protector, but not for the reasons he was ordained with. 

Alayne stepped out of the room, sauntering quietly towards her destination. A flock of servants passed by, all of their heads bent and going about their work silently. Alayne kept her chin up and took each one of them in; most, if not all, of them were in servitude to her father directly rather than Lord Robert's. The castle teemed with people loyal to the coins of Lord Petyr Baelish, from lowly servants to highborn knights such as Ser Lyn Corbray. _Power and coin go hand in hand, my sweet. Everyone knows the tongue of wealth and where it can bring you. A well-placed investment will pay its due to you tenfold. And people are investments all the same. Always look for them. _

Rounding a corner, Alayne found the staircase leading up into the higher floors of the Gates of the Moon, a spiralling structure made of dull grey bricks with two gargoyle statues of insipid black stone flanking the sides of the steps. Just as she was about to ascend, the buxom form of her friend Myranda sashayed down, a noise of surprised delight bursting out of her mouth. 

"Dear Alayne, what a sweet coincidence! I've been trying to find you all evening long!" A simper crossed her lips as she bounced off the stairs, the hem of her grey dress fluttering. Myranda took her hands in her own and twined their fingers. "Sweetrobin has asked for you on several trices. He doesn't wish to stomach his porridge. Would you be a dear and come to feed him his supper? His lordship has always been so receptive to your sweet words. The Mother knows I've tried soothing him into his supper, but the poor boy won't heed my words of comfort." 

Myranda spoke with mock hurt in her tone, lips pouting as she cradled her cheek dramatically. Were it not for the occasion, Alayne would have tittered at her friend's antics, but the nonce did not call for mirth at the moment. 

"Forgive me, Randa, but Father has tasked me with finding his ledger. He's meeting Ser Harrold and Ser Lyn." Alayne said, unclasping her fingers from Myranda's. 

"Truly? Whatever for?" Arching an eyebrow, Myranda looked at her, shrewd eyes gleaming with interest. 

"I don't know." She shrugged in answer. "Whatever it is, it's surely a subject of business. Father always speaks the tongue of coin and commerce." 

Myranda kept her gaze steady, pointed even, an infinitesimal squint of her eyes pegging her qualm, but she said not another word further. Instead, her smile broadened impishly. "Very well then, love. Go on, be on your merry way." Passing her, the daughter of Lord Nestor Royce swayed further down the stairs. Alayne bit her lip, a memory coming to her mind. _She likes to play the merry fool, but underneath, she’s shrewder than her father. Guard your tongue around her. _

Alayne turned on her heel, holding the stone bannisters and gliding up towards the second floor when Myranda's sultry voice rang out again. 

"Alayne, darling, you know that I bear you no ill will, right? You know you can trust me, right?" Looking over her shoulder, Myranda's look was dark, bold, cunning, eyes as canny as that of a fox. 

Alayne swallowed, uncertain, before the words came to her again. "Of course, Randa. I love you, and I know you bear me love as well. We're friends, after all. Are we not?" 

"Friends..." Myranda nodded, smiling sharply, catlike and knowing; there was a promise in that smile. One that sent shudders down her spine. She smiled as if she had finally found her prize. "We are indeed friends. More than you can imagine. Our bond goes as deep as blood, dear Alayne. We remember, after all." 

_The North remembers..._

Blinking, Alayne tried gathering her scattered thoughts. The words chiming inside her thought sent her reeling back. What would the north remember...? 

Confused, Alayne decided to ignore the sudden thought pervading her mind and tried looking for her friend. To her bemusement, Myranda had left, vanishing in the halls like a spectre, leaving Alayne behind with her own thoughts. A foreboding feeling crept along the slope of her spine. Something was about to happen. 

Shaking her head lightly, Alayne gathered her thoughts and made for the stairs, taking one at the time, careful not to slip like the last time she used these stairs. Alayne needed to talk to the masons and ask them to take a better look at some of the castle's sections. The Gates was a formidable bastion, yet the interior had suffered under severe dilapidation. 

Robert and the late Lady Arryn must have never left the Eyrie to allow the Gates of the Moon to fall in such a state. Alayne did not expect to anyway; the Lord Arryn was prone to even the wilted of sicknesses. A flu could just as easily render him bedridden as the bloody flux. With winter's impending arrival, winter fever would come as well. Robert's greatest enemies were highly virulent diseases, and winter fever could easily wipe out a city if left unchecked. 

Making it to her father's solar, Alayne entered the room and went about the place in silence, searching for the great tome filled with the Lord Protector's accounts, notes and contracts. She immediately made for his desk, where most of her father's documents were, and indeed, on his desk made of rich sandalwood lay a large book, its lid closed and clasped shut by an iron lock. 

Its very size frightened Alayne, for it could effortlessly block her entire chest if she were to carry it. Alayne momentarily wondered if her father wanted the book to serve as a shield as well, or a blunt weapon nobody would expect. Judging by its thickness and weight, it could easily pass for both. 

Lifting it with a grunt, Alayne bounded for the halls and made her way back to where her father was to entertain Ser Harrold and Ser Lyn. 

She knocked three times and waited for permission. Instead of being beckoned inside, someone opened the door for her, and that was when she came face to face with the young Ser Harrold Hardyng. Lothor Brune stood in the far corner, a sentinel keeping over this meeting. Already, he was indulging himself to a green apple, taking large bites and chewing loudly. 

"Lady Alayne." Harry grinned as a welcome, eyes sparkling like two blue little ponds of crystal water. "A pleasant surprise to find you here this fine evening." 

Gods, despite being a bit of a cocksure oaf, Alayne could not help the blush spreading across her face as Harry smiled at her broadly, his white teeth greeting her in abundance. His comeliness was his deadliest weapon. Alayne quickly composed herself and curtsied to the heir of the Vale, ledger still pressed against her chest. 

"Good eve, ser." Simpering, Alayne stepped inside, the door behind her closing with a thud, a tone of finality in its closure. "How fare your daughters, my lord?" 

Harry straightened in his stance, puffing out his chest. It made him look like a peacock. "Alys has recently started babbling nonsense." There was a touch of pride in that statement, matched with his grinning eyes. "She can say words like 'da' and 'ma', drool dripping down her chin." 

"Truly? That is wonderful, my lord." Alayne smiled. "You should bring your daughter along to the Gates someday. She could learn so many things here, with the Lord Paramount of the Vale and his court present. I reckon she would be raised as a right proper woman, surrounded by so many keen people." 

Harry shook his head flippantly, as if scolding a child. "Lady Alayne, Alys is lowborn. The court of the Vale would see it as an insult. Bastards are-" 

"I know how bastards are seen, my lord." Alayne cut him off, still gracing Harry with a coy smile, though the words Harry so callously spoke set her teeth on edge. "All the same, I'm not saying she would one day become the heir to your legacy, but your daughter at least deserves a proper education, don't you think? You begot her, it is only good that you also see to her needs." 

Harry's lips parted, a little glint of vexation simmering inside his deep blue eyes, but before he could wheeze out a word, her father interjected as he emerged from the privy, drying his hands with a cloth. 

"My dear, is that you? Splendid, we were just waiting for you, Alayne. Come inside, dearheart, and tend to Ser Lyn. He has had a trying day and is in need of some liquor to ease his tensions." Father chuckled smoothly, eating an apple as he took his seat and watching her with unsmiling eyes. "Ser Harrold, show some chivalry and relief my dearest daughter of her burdens." 

"Oh, right, of course..." Harry sounded peeved as he mumbled under his breath. He absolved her of the ledger's painful weight, finally, and carried it with ease towards her father, placing it squarely in front of his face. _So much for being a knight. If gallantry only comes to you when it's ordered, I pity the ladies stuck in high towers swooning over you._

Their coos and sighs would matter little in the end. Harry was promised to her. It was still a subject that caused Alayne to brood like a gargoyle atop a castle's parapet. 

Harry was not irredeemable, he had certain traits that made it not so hard to tolerate him, his beauty notwithstanding, but truth be told, Alayne already had her hands full with Robert; could she possibly have the patience to teach a boy how to act like a proper man? One close to her own age, no less? Or was she doomed to batten his ego and walk on eggshells with him as well, like she was doing with the current ruler of the Vale, spoilt and sickly Robert Arryn? 

These swirling thoughts kept plaguing Alayne as Myrish brandy cascaded out of the decanter she was carrying, filling Lyn Corbray's bronze goblet to the rim as he held it up. His fine yellow doublet with the thrice-perched crow sewn on the breast was shining like gold in the candlelight, fitting his slack form. He gave her a disinterested once-over before his eyes settled on her father. 

"Lord Baelish, might we swiftly proceed with this meeting?" He said, cutting into an apple and feeding himself a piece with his dagger. "I have an unfaithful good-sister to escort. My brother's bitch of a wife needs to be brought to Gulltown and answer these accusations of giving her husband horns. It just so happens that a lot of gold is to be earned by merely bringing the harlot to her father. Who am I to refuse an easy job?" 

Harry scoffed over the rim of his cup, drinking from his wine greedily, just as blasé in his stance as Ser Lyn, a leg crossed over the other. Whereas it looked roguishly charming with Lyn, Harry looked out of place and artless in his pose. Was he trying to mimic the Corbray knight? If so, it was quite an embarrassing emulation. "She's nothing special, that woman. Rumour has it that half of Gulltown's guard has been between her legs. She might put that Frey whore to shame with her wantonness. Lord Lancel's wife. What was her name? Amy? Aemma?" 

"Amerei, ser." Alayne corrected suddenly before she remembered herself. The three occupants of the room looked at her strangely and she coloured at her audacity. "My apologies, ser, I did not want to speak out of turn." 

Father waved his hand aloofly. "Never mind that, my dear." A hand went inside his doublet, and a moment later, an iron object glinted in the light. Father had taken out his key and opened the ledger's lock, flipping through the book's content leisurely. "Like the good ser from Heart's Home said, let us conclude this meeting swiftly." 

Lady Waynwood's ward drummed his fingers against the table impatiently. Lyn was eying the tip of his dagger with interest, going about the weapon before sheathing it finally. 

Father smiled gregariously, the first move of his play. "The three of us are here today to discuss a most...delicate matter. The Lord Robert's succession." 

Alayne stiffened as she busied herself with the table, cutting into a duck pie, almost taking her finger as a victim instead in her surprise. 

Harry gave a thoughtful hum, shortly eying the Lord Protector with bored eyes. "What is there to discuss, my lord? The matter is fairly simple; if Robert dies, the lords will stand behind my ascendency as I take my rightful place as Lord Paramount of the Vale and that is that." 

"Let the man finish, boy." Lyn scoffed, his arms folded over his chest as he regarded Robert's cousin with thinly veiled contempt. "Larger things are going on than that pretty head of yours cares to realize. Let men of great tact speak before you open your lips." 

Harry bristled in his seat, coming to his feet all of a sudden as he glared heatedly at the knight of House Corbray. "You'd do well to remember who you're addressing, ser. I'm not some commoner who you can curl your lips about. You're speaking to the future Lord of the Eyrie!" 

"A lie if I've ever cared to hear one. They say you're Jon Arryn come again." Lyn sneered back smugly." I didn't see a speck of that during the tourney. Must have been such a challenge for a boy as green as you to unhorse mummer knights even greener. All of you put together could've pissed the rains of spring over us all." 

Alayne had to roll her bottom lip beneath the ridges of her teeth, sinking them into their volume to stop herself from tittering. The pettifogging between the two was astounding; here sat two of the most prominent knights in the Vale acting like two peacocks trying to preen the other into submission. 

Ser Lyn reminded her of someone else, someone with ringlets of gold and gleaming green eyes. A man who was both gifted with beauty and martial talent, with a sense of humour as crooked as a dog's hind leg. 

Father did not look in the least bit amused at their quarrel, but his lips thinned into a polite smile nonetheless. "Now, now, my lords." He said, bringing out a parchment from his ledger. "I believe enmity between us will bring us nowhere. Please, cease this so we can talk about this." He said, waving the parchment. Harry and Lyn settled down, grudgingly, giving the other still dirty looks. 

"And what might that be, Lord Baelish?" Harry pointed at the scroll. 

Father's lips stretched as he smiled, the salt-and-pepper of his pointed chin beard widening along. "This, my future Lord of the Eyrie, is a testament." He gestured towards Lyn. "Your brother's wife, what is her dear name again?" 

"Larissa, a six-and-ten year old Lysene child whore." Lyn waved his hand indifferently. "The daughter of some upstart who got himself fat with coin by trading in Qartheen spices." 

"Correct. Now, I have brokered that marriage between your esteemed brother and his young wife, of course, but that is not the only thing I managed to achieve for your house." The parchment was placed upon the table gingerly. "This testament is of her father, the fat merchant." He said, chuckling. "The man suffers from an unknown sickness for quite some time now, sucking the life out of him every day. The maesters call it the Laceration, a newly discovered disease or something of the likes. Anyhow, your brother's dear good-father is not much longer of this world, and so, he has named his young daughter the heiress to his fortunes. At my urgency, that is." 

Ser Lyn leaned forward a bit, his interest piqued. "What you're saying is that..." 

"Yes, good ser; House Corbray will inherit, through dear Larissa, the spice trade set up by her father. It will bring in the much needed coin to your coffers. At last, your prestige will match your wealth, ser." A triumphant smile tugged at her father's lips, his form leaning back into his chair while he glanced at the 

With care, Lyn picked up the testament with his mailed fingers. Those sharp eyes of his never left Lord Baelish, suspicious and calculating. Father continued before Ser Lyn could utter a word about this sudden turn of events. 

"As for Ser Harrold, I have a different sort of offer." 

Like a child presented with a prospecting new toy, Harry lit up and sat straighter in his chair, hanging on every word of the Lord Protector's lips. 

Another scroll was brought out from his ledger. "This concerns the annulment of a certain marriage concluded under duress and controversy, granted by the Septon of Oldtown, a man almost as equally pious as the High Septon." 

Harry took it with both his hands and began to read. "In the Light and Blessing of the Seven, I, Septon Garth, on behalf of a Council of Faith, hereby proclaim the marriage between Tyrion of the House Lannister and Sansa of the House Stark to be null and void, for the reasons of the marriage being unconsummated and performed under the existence of duress." Alayne froze in her place at the mention of the name 'Sansa Stark'. 

A strange shiver barrelled down her back hearing it. 

She could not explain why. 

Harry gazed up from the parchment with confusion, throwing the annulment onto the table rather uncouthly. "I don't understand; what's the importance of this annulment? What would I care about a traitor's daughter and a dwarf's marriage being annulled?" Displeasure flared inside Alayne's heart, but yet again, confusion settled in as well. _What is going on with me?_

"Because, my lord, this opens a most favourable opportunity. During the time that I've spent in King's Landing as Master of Coin, I've stumbled upon a little key." His smiling face turned to Alayne. "The key to the North." 

Lyn and Harry followed his eyes, but Alayne remained frozen in her spot. Sweat started to flush her back and throat. She was getting anxious. Why? 

Harry was the first to speak. "Is she...?" 

"Yes, she is. Before you stand the heiress to the Kingdom of the North, Princess Sa-" A knock interrupted her father. His smile dropped from his face, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Who dares come and disturb this private meeting?" 

"I will see to it, Father. Please, carry on with your business." Alayne placated. She opened the door, and to her surprise, a maidservant stood there carrying a flask. She instantly recognized her mousy hair and downcast eyes. It was Nira, the maidservant Myranda had brought along. 

"Pardon, milady, but I forgot to include the Lord Protector's favourite wine on the table." Raising the decanter meaningfully, Nira peered through her lashes at Alayne. Nira was a shy little creature, quick and quiet in her work, like a mouse stalking the halls for cheese, never alerting anyone of its presence while purposefully seeking to achieve their task. It came as a little surprise that she had forgotten something. In the short while she was here, she never forgot something. 

Suddenly, Alayne felt something press against the wool of her skirt. She immediately ducked her chin, looking down towards a soft fist peeking out of Nira's dress, a small vial clutched inside her grip. Darting her gaze back, Nira met her stare, and gone was the timid little servant girl. Her eyes burnt with meaning, willing her to take the object. And she did. 

"Pour three beads inside the chalice...and trust your kin." Came the whisper. She disappeared before Alayne could formulate a proper response. 

"Who is it, Alayne?" Her father's impatience lilt rang. Alayne took both flask and vial, carefully slipping the smaller object inside her dress pocket and shoed the maid away before turning. 

Alayne hoped her smile was innocuous when she turned back. "It seems we forgot the most important thing. Wine from the Arbor!" 

"Ah, I could do with some fine Arbor gold. Please, do pour your beloved father a full cup." She nodded tersely, making it for the table quietly to find a goblet. Father resumed his talk with the two sers. "Where was I? Oh, of course, the matter of Lady Sansa Stark." Again, shivers tickled her spine, shivers of unease. "My dear bastard daughter here was never my daughter in the first place. Lady Sansa Stark has been masquerading as Alayne Stone this whole time to protect herself from Queen Cersei's pawns. With the capital now in utter disarray thanks to her ineptitude, the Lannisters have their hands full trying to regain a measure of control over the Seven Kingdoms. With their eyes turned away, Lady Sansa can finally shed her cloak of invisibility and reveal herself to the world...with a new husband at her side." 

"And by husband...you wish for me to wed the Lady Sansa?" 

Alayne had finally found her father's chalice and poured in a healthy amount of Arbor gold. The vial was still inside her pocket, pressing against her hipbone, mockingly almost. She knew not what to do with it. 

"And style yourself King by right of your wife, the Queen in the North. Likewise, you shall also wear the title of Lord of the Eyrie, effectively becoming King of the Mountain and the Vale and King in the North." 

Harry whistled, impressed, chuckling as he took a swig of his wine. His blue eyes turned to her, boring holes into the back of her skull, she could feel. Father looked at her just the same. Leered at her just the same; as if she was nought but a pretty trophy decorated with gold and gems, a piece of jewellery to possess, wear and use to impress others. _Because that is what you've always been. Only ever a means to an end. You've known his nature for so long. Are you truthfully surprised? Wake up, foolish girl, wake up and see Petyr for the liar he is. _

Harry frowned then as something sank in, chagrined all of a sudden. "For me to become the Lord of the Eyrie, and mayhaps King even, my sweet sickly cousin must first give up the ghost and repose in peace. As long as he's still breathing, I can't take the Arryn name and ascend." 

"No need for worry, Ser Harrold. I have this all planned out." 

Lyn decided to intervene, his knuckles rapping against the table in protest. "I must say, Lord Baelish, you have proven yourself to be a very generous man indeed." The derision in Lyn's voice belied the sincerity of his praise. "Too generous, I should say. No man would orchestrate all this without the desire to have a piece of the pie too." 

Father chuckled; there was no humour to be found. "A man once told me; if you have a talent for something, never offer it without compensation. Not today, not tomorrow, but I will reap the fruits of my labour one day. I always do." 

"And what if I simply cast you aside?" Lyn grinned. "I owe you nothing, Lord Baelish. This...generosity, we didn't ask for it, but we'll happily take it. I don't see why I should owe you." 

"Oh, but you do, my lord." There was that glint again; that unsmiling glint of a man wrapped in shadows and tucking at dark webs to achieve his goals. A man who shook with his right hand while concealing a dagger behind his back. Alayne remembered then what her father was called by some courtiers as a nickname. Littlefinger. The Lord of Schemes. Something sinister crossed his face. "Know that just as I raised you, Ser Lyn, I can just as easily tear you down." 

"What did you say, you slippery serpent?" The knight had come to his feet, hand on the heart-shaped ruby within the pommel of his Valyrian steel sword, Lady Forlorn. 

Ser Lothor answered Lyn's aggression, coming to stand protectively over his master, like a loyal dog would shield his owner. 

Father was not daunted, looking the knight dead in the eye. "Please rein in your temper, Lyn Corbray. I have dealt with the likes of Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon. Your temper is but a gust compared to their storm. Now please, take your seat again, my good ser." 

The tension was thick, strong enough that one could taste it with a flicker of their tongue through the air. Ser Lyn lingered on his feet, his chainmail rattling, but he ultimately acquiesced and sat back. Father looked pleased. 

"Now, regarding Sweetrobin..." He broached. "Let us not beat around the bush, his lordship will not survive the coming winter. His fragile disposition will simply not allow for it. If winter fever will not claim him, surely another disease will." 

"What are you saying, Lord Baelish?" Harry inquired, wiping away the crumbs around his mouth as he finished a piece of his duck pie. 

"What I'm saying...is that we relieve the Lord Robert of this cruel existence...in perpetuity." 

Her hand nearly slipped, the goblet trembling in her hold. 

The implications horrified Alayne. 

"Are you suggesting we put Robert...to death?" Harry had the decency to sound aghast by the mere hint, which relieved Alayne. It seemed some decency did exist within his being. Still, the little knot of anxiety did not unfurl inside her stomach. 

"Of course not." Father said in protest. "I would never wish ill on his lordship." 

What a convincing piece of mummery he was putting on, acting like the leal guardian bound by duty, a face contorted in trouble and chimes of worry in his voice. That was Father's greatest forte; picking up the fiddle and play a tune of deception to which his dancers would sway to. Alayne would know; she had been the lead in this drama of his for the longest time. She knew when Father would swath himself in the feathers of a mockingbird and start singing his deception. 

There was an ambiguous tone in Father's voice when he spoke again, revealing a small bottle from his pockets as he did so. "However...the whole of the Vale already suspects that Lord Robert will not live for much longer. His lordship is so depended on sweetsleep, a dangerous drug to rely on. Any day now, he could close his eyes and never open them again. Maester Colemon already worries so much...afraid that Lord Robert's fatality will not be an illness, but a remedy," The last part was uttered with a chuckle. "as ironic as that sounds. Not a single lord would suspect a thing if a pinch of sweetsleep too much would be dropped in his porridge...and Lord Robert would be forever released of his torments." 

Alayne's hands were shaking, eyes wide with horror and the cave of her mouth as dry as a desert. By the Seven...he was plotting to have Robert laid to rest before his time. Just so that he could further his plots. Her vision started to swim, blurry spots clouding her eyes. She was starting to feel ill to her stomach as the realization sank in. 

Her fingers slid across the cool glass of the vial pressed into her palm. Could Alayne allow for this crime to happen? Robert as a spoilt little urchin, a holy terror, but Alayne also saw the good in him; he was sweet and kind and good if he wanted to be. Her little lordling who dreamt of knights and falcons. Robert just needed a good hand to guide him through life. And these implications...Father claimed her to be someone else...someone who was supposed to be dead. Sansa Stark, the last of the wolves. _Who am I? Am I Alayne? I have always been Alayne... _

_Lies... _

Something warm welled up inside her mind, a swell that pressed against the wall of her skull. A headache had begun to form. Sweat had formed in a thin sheet across her body, hot and flushed. It felt as if her head was trapped inside the clutches of a scalding hairnet made of flames and steel, enclosing over the crown and squeezing hard. 

Alayne's glazed eyes took in the little vial inside her hand. Why did she have it again? Shaking her head and rubbing her temple, Alayne uncorked it and poured its content inside the goblet. 

"My dear? You're taking an awful long to prepare that Arbor gold." Fathe- was he her father, actually? Alayne willed the thought away with a shake of her head. 

"My apologies, Father." She murmured, her hands busying itself with something cold and hard and smooth, fingers brushing over a dry little knob. Her ears registered three little droplets tumbling down and crashing quietly to their end, but other than that, she knew not what was happening around the world. The headache was making it too difficult to think, so she spared herself that burden and allowed her mind to loosen. Thinking made her grit her teeth in pain. Thinking made her mind swim in hot melted steel. 

She staggered to the table, goblet full of Arbor gold in hand, and came to stand by Lord Petyr's, her father's, side. As she placed the gilded cup near his hand, fingers brushed over her hip, making her stiffen. 

"I've taught Lady Sansa so many things during her stay here in the Vale." Memories of minty breaths washing over her face came to mind, smarmy lips grazing hers, dry and thin and so uncomfortable to the touch. "She will do her duty. She will take the crown of the North and be the beautiful Queen in the North, men falling to their knees and swearing their swords to her cause. Now that House Stark is dead through the male line, the female line can ascend to the northern throne, but first, she will help assist us in elevating Ser Harrold to his rightful place." 

Father's hand never left her body, now resting on the small of her back, dangerously close where her hips met her bottoms. It was highly indecent for any man, let alone a father, to caress someone's daughter as such, and Alayne did everything in her power not to jump out of her skin and scrub her flesh clean with the hottest water available at the Gates. Even through the layers of clothes Alayne was wearing, Father's hand marked her, branded her, burnt her. It felt as if her skin was being tainted by hellfire. Eventually, Alayne could no longer bear his touch and scooted away, excusing herself with a menial task, finding any triviality favourable than standing near her lord father. 

"Now, here comes the part where the both of you will play in." Father said, taking a sip of his wine. "Since the both of you are honoured Winged Knights, you stand in excellent range to help in-ehem..." He cleared his throat loudly, scratchily, as if mucus was lodged there. "...Alayne here, who will put Lord Robert at ease and make...m-make...make sure no other denizen of the cas-tle...will...ugh." The brogue of his voice slowed suddenly. Father sounded drowsy. 

"Lord Baelish? Are you well?" Alayne heard Harry inquire, eying Father like he was a virulent disease, keeping his distance by scooting back into his chair. 

Alayne dared to throw a look over her shoulder, taking in both the stringent forms of Lyn Corbray and Harry as they appraised the Lord Protector with leery eyes. Father's eyes were droopy, blinking slowly ahead of himself. His body was swaying softly, like he was dancing to a tune only he was hearing. Alayne worried her lip. 

"Y-yes, I am...quite well, my l-lord." Came the reply after a long pregnant pause. Father drawled the answer, as if tough syrup was coming out of his mouth. 

And then Father fell forward and smashed face-first into the woodwork of the table before he slid off his chair and slumped to the ground. 

"Lord Baelish!" 

Alayne screamed her lungs out in shock. 

"What in the Seven Hells...!?" The room erupted in a panic. Harry sprung to his feet, looking frantically between her and Father, _not Father, he died at the steps of the Sept of Baelor, this man was only an imposter. _

At a loss what to do, Lyn drew Lady Forlorn and snarled viciously at the body of the Lord Protector, jaws set taut and eyes glaring hotly. Lothor looked on, shocked into inaction, the unfinished apple in his hand falling as he stared at the limp form of Petyr Baelish. 

The whole commotion was rather loud, but Alayne only heard a distant ring between the drums of her ears. Everything happened so fast. One moment she was standing inside the room, a myriad of emotions flowing through her, and the next she heard a voice, _Myranda_, barging in, Vale guards flanking her sides and ordering both Ser Lyn and Harry to be taken into custody. 

Time flashed by. Alayne found herself being escorted by a guardsman to her chambers, Myranda's warm embrace holding her, keeping her grounded and tethered to the world as everything seemed to jostle and reshape into something else. 

One thing Alayne was certain of as she was guided through the halls, amidst all the confusion. One thing Alayne remembered that faithful day. Instead of feeling bereaved and sorrowful at the death of the Lord Protector Petyr Baelish, her father, so he claimed, it was insurmountable relief that flushed over her. Relief and sweet freedom. 

The sweet realization that she was rid of an invisible yoke. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this will be last of the introductory parts. The following chapters will be much shorter.

**THE KING IN THE NORTH**

"The last of the Bolton loyalists are taken care of, my lord. We've confiscated their lands and weapons. The men await your orders." Satin informed as he walked alongside Jon across the parapets. 

"Is the Dreadfort itself secured as well? What of the lands further down, to Overton Keep and Hornwood Castle?" Jon leaning against the railing as he spoke. He oversaw the training yard, a dozen men swinging their arms. Per his orders, they further tried honing their skills with the sword, given strict instructions to follow. 

“Yes, all the lands, even Castle Ethering, their second keep, is now in our hands, my lord.” 

_ You are no lord. _

There it was again, the words poised on the edge of a blade, sharp and hissing. The voice belonged to a young boy; a sullen little child with scrapped knees and muddy trousers. A young boy limping behind another boy, whose hand twined with a woman's, both walking away from him. Her hair was the colour of copper and bronze, cascading down her back like a ruddy waterfall. Jon closed his eyes and wished the thought away. 

"Good. Have the castles manned by Manderly and Hornwood men for the time being, Satin. Their loyalty to House Stark has always been true. I will decide the fate of the Dreadfort later. What of the Freys?" 

"As far as our riders know, they have crossed the Neck, some at the cost of their lives. The North is free of those traitors, thank the Gods." 

Jon nodded and proceeded in his trek. He continued his inspections of the castle as he spoke with the men around. His body felt bone-tired and deprived of any meaningful sleep. 

Memories came back to him each passing night. Little by little, Jon picked them up as if they were shards of a broken mirror he was trying to put together. As the morn crept up the horizon, Jon wished they would stay forever buried beneath the snow and stone of his amnesia. 

To his dismay, it was not a harmless revelation each time a memory came back to him. Jon had to fight tooth and nail, suffering crippling terrors of the night if he wanted to reclaim them. He would find himself in bed, furs soaked in sweat each time nightfall came. Breaking free from terror after terror pained him, breath coming out ragged as if he was resurrected all over again, brimstone and fire and soot choking him. 

The cycle was unbearable and endless. Jon could not remember a day where he had slept for an hour, if at all. His eyelids hang heavy and stung from too long wandering awake. One day, it became too much, and Jon decided to wave away his fear for sleep in favour of hoping for some peace of mind. He had suffered the harshest nightmare that day. 

Since then, Jon vowed to never lay his head on a pillow. Instead, he tended to the North and its needs, cooped up inside his father's solar with only a candle, Ghost and Mormont as his companions. Jon went through accounts and letters until the sun greeted him with its warm tendrils. It was not sustainable, he knew, but what other choice did he have? Sleep terrified him. Daggers in the dark would come for him again, and if not daggers, then the haunting peals of children's screams would drive him to the point of insanity. 

Ghost helped as much as he could, his white direwolf lying beside him each time a night terror would raze him like a storm. Jon would wake up to a tongue licking his face whenever the dream became too much. Mormont, as he had come to call the huge raven, for he would always be Jeor's, kept close to him as well. He always sat on his desk or the sill of the window, beady eyes looking at him, watching him, guarding him almost. Jon liked to indulge himself into believing that the old Lord Commander had warged into the bird after death. Jeor Mormont kept vigil over the realm through the raven. Kept watching over his kindred spirits. Even in death, his vows persisted. 

“Lord Jon! We spotted riders on the kingsroad heading our way! They carry a white banner!” A young boy came rushing to meet him atop the battlements overseeing the lands north of Winterfell. 

A tired breath tumbled over Jon's lips, his fingers easing his temples as below people scurried about frantically at the news. _Hasn’t the day been straining enough? Is it too much to ask for a little respite? I could use a mug of ale at least…_

The news of riders galloping their way was a good excuse for Jon to beckon the other men-at-arms to accompany him towards the east gate and receive these new arrivals; he had been hearing petitions all day as he made his rounds across Winterfell, incessant little complaints about trivialities that could have been just as easily solved if the northern lords used their heads more tactfully. 

The castle was bustling around him, men and women hurriedly scrambling across the yard to tend to muttons and chickens, hoisting beams for the reparations, dragging buckets of waters, gathering crates of grain and bushel to store away. Jon took it all in during his stride. _Winter is coming, and idle fingers will do no one good. Even after all their sufferings, diligence towards duty is still at the forefront of their minds. It will be our salvation. The Gods bless them all for it._

The gate came nearer and its oaken doors opened with a creaking sound harsh on the ears. Two fur-clad riders hastily entered Winterfell and descended from the stirrups of their horses, squelching the soft soil and dirtying their leather boots with mud. 

“Jon Snow! We have need of Jon Snow! The son of Eddard Stark! Who answers to the name Jon Snow!” They sounded distraught and out of breath. Judging by the haggard gasps of their horses, it must have been days that these two had ridden through the winter-conquered lands of the North to reach Winterfell. 

Jon stepped forward and gestured for their attention. “Welcome to Winterfell, I am the Jon Snow you are searching for. State yourself so I may greet you with proper courtesy.” 

Up close, Jon could discern the dark furs stained by muds and pinned in with broken branches. Their garbs were wrapped around their bodies tautly and kept them sufficiently warm from the icy touches of the winter winds, fur-trimmed cowls over their heads and sturdy calf-leather gloves shielding their ears and hands. The furs had seen better days though, for some places suffered gaping holes and missing patches, stitched together slatternly, a paltry attempt to keep the cold out. 

The newly arrived riders pulled back their hoods and judging by the looks of their gruff faces, these two were hardened northern warriors. One was a man wearing boiled leathers and dirtied chainmail, thick-bearded across his face, steady and copper of hair and the other a short grey-haired woman, though stout as a bear, clad in patched ringmail and a spiked cudgel attached to her hip crusted with tinges of orange. 

They neared with large steps fit for the gruff northerners, each one louder than the previous one, the clinks of their armour making even a greater ruckus. 

“Jon Snow? By the Old Gods, are you truly Eddard Stark’s last living son?” 

“Wash the grime out of your eyes, Galbart. Look at his face. Look at those eyes. That’s a true Stark standing before you.” The greyed woman quipped as she came to his side. 

“S’pose you’re right about that…hurts my weary heart to see him, though. Ned was a good friend of me and mine. Those damned southron bastards had no right to take his head. To see a boy look so much like him, it’s both heartening and painful. Though, I wouldn’t name him Ned Stark yet… he looks like a Stark all right, but a different one…perhaps…like Brandon? Or…Benjen?” 

The stout old woman narrowed her beady eyes, letting them roam across him and Jon could not help but let her do so. Jon shuffled from one foot to the other, an unpleasant yet familiar unease creeping up. People always commented on how very Stark he looked. It served different feelings, offtimes conflicting with one and the other. 

_ I am not a Stark. _

_ Yet you look __more Stark __than the eldest living son did. _

_ I will never bear the Stark name. _

_ You need not, for you bear the Stark blood. _

The elder woman of short stature, though no less imposing, stood cross from Jon. Her feet fidgeted a bit, restless in their movement until Jon noticed her worn-out breaths coming out a little strained. Her knees buckled like over-encumbered twigs. 

“Others take me…” Jon lashed his arms forward and clasped the woman by the elbows for what she was about to do, holding her up with the strength of his forearms. “What kind of journey has forced you to travel with such haste? Tell me of your ailments.” Both man and woman shared a look, Jon relinquishing his hold on the woman’s arms as she made to rise, her strength seemingly returned. 

“Your Grace, we wish to–” 

“Your Grace…?” Jon frowned, a scandalized hiss tumbling over his lips. “You tell me this instant who it is you are and what the meaning of this…this…absurdity is. I got other matters to address and being a jester’s piss pole is not one of them.” 

The man hardened in his stance, visibly incensed at Jon’s words. 

“Lord Galbart Glover and Lady Maege Mormont. Mind your tongue boy, for we are not on a fool’s errand. Your brother, King Robb, had sent us North with a matter of great import. Something that concerns you most of all.” Jon’s ire thawed in an instant and he struggled to find the right words, but he corrected himself with a grim look. 

“Forgive me, my lord and lady. The day has been taxing. I meant no offence for my tone.” 

The old woman was quick to forgive, to Jon’s relief, robust and fierce as she looked, her chafed lips pulled in a little smile as the Bear Lady patted Jon’s arm. If she was in any way offended, she did not let it on. 

Even the Lord of Deepwood Motte loosened the wrinkles on his brows and clapped Jon on the shoulder. The Lady of Bear Island's eyes softened, but her smile was dropped the instant they fell on Longclaw’s pommel, once a bear now a snarling white wolf. 

“You were once a black brother I heard. My brother Jeor, the grumpy old bear he was, served as the 997th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. The sword strapped to your waist, I can recognize that hilt with my eyes scooped out of their sockets. How…how has my ancestral sword fallen in your possession?” 

Jon heard no hint of malice or anger in her words, but something akin to anguish. To give the Lady of Bear Island a better view, Jon unsheathed the Valyrian bastard sword that had saved his life so many times, presenting it in the dim light of the greyed sun. 

“Lord Commander Mormont gifted it to me when I saved his life from a wight. He said he couldn’t bring himself to look at the sword, for it reminded him of–” 

“The shame Jorah brought to our family…” 

“Aye, my Lady, that is what he said.” Jon nodded. 

“What has become of my brother…?” 

The lines and scars on Jon’s face became more pronounced, his thoughtful frown turning into a pained scowl as grim memories came back to mind. Memories only recently garnered. Eddard Stark was not the only wise lord Jon received tutelage from in life. Uncle Benjen, old Maester Aemon were two, and the other was Lord Jeor Mormont. 

In the short period Jon brought him his ale and supper, polished his swords and shared words to take heed, Jeor Mormont had earned himself a seat in Jon’s heart. Jeor’s death was the result of grotesque treason, and when he burnt on the pyre, it made the ache inside his heart a conversant twist. A feeling of remorse for the loss of a kindred spirit. A kindred spirit now more so than Jon would have ever realized that day. 

“Lord Commander Mormont…died at the hands of mutineers. A great ranging beyond the Wall was organized, but the cause was lost. He was murdered by turncloaks at a crofter’s keep.” Maege Mormont’s face crumbled, a small hitch in her throat barely audible. Sensing her dismay, Jon’s hands poised over Lady Mormont's shoulder, unsure what to do to comfort the woman, the appendage uselessly hanging there. “Rest assured, the traitors have been brought to justice and his bones laid to rest.” 

She was grief-stricken, the pain in her eyes more than letting itself be known. It roared like an angered bear, mournful and pained at the loss of beloved kin. Jon felt himself share in it. A lone tear fell down Maege’s eye, Lord Glover resting a comforting hand on the old lady’s shoulder. 

“Oh Jeor…dearest brother… I pray to the Gods you have found your rest…” The sight weighed heavily on Jon’s heart, a thick lump trapped inside his throat at seeing a sister mourning for her brother. 

“Lord Galbart…?” Jon whipped around, a new voice mingling in and he met the astounded eyes of Larence Snow, his lips slightly part in disbelief and eyes brimming with tears threatening to spill over. 

“Larence…? By all that is good, is that you, my boy? Have the Gods given me some respite?” He opened his arms as he made a dash for the boy, who met him midway, engulfing him in a mighty embrace that had the boy wrapped completely in Galbart’s arms. “It really is you, little Larence.” He croaked with a strained voice, his muscled arms tightening their hold over the sobbing boy. Maege looked on with a pained smile, eyes red-rimmed, but a hint of sympathy and gratification danced inside them seeing guardian and ward reunited like that. 

“Mother…?” It was a lighter voice this time, this one a startled squeak of a girl’s, sounding like a bird finally uncaged. “Please, let the Gods be good and not deceive me…” Maege Mormont turned around with the speed not found oft in women her age, breathing more restrained than earlier. 

“Lyra…? Lyra, sweetling, are you there?” Her answer was a pained sob, as a girl of no older than what Sansa would have been when she left for King’s Landing came running down the courtyard, pushing away anyone and anything in her wake, trails of fat tears trailing down her pink cheeks until she found herself in the arms of her mother. 

Maege’s lips parted as a desperate cry escaped her lungs, her hands carding through the black locks of her daughter. “Oh my sweet, sweet little cub… mother is here little one, will your tears away and seek warmth in mother’s embrace…” She kissed the crown of Lyra’s head over and over again, her daughter sobbing uncontrollably in the arms of the woman she needed all this time, her face vanished in dirty furs and staining them even further with joyful tears, but she paid it no heed. 

Jon looked on in reluctance, his lips pulled in a grim line. Despite the excruciating ache stinging his heart at the sight of such a blissful reunion of kin, he was somewhat glad for their respite, as envious as a small part of him was. 

Hollowly, a voice rang inside his head, behind a chorus of a hundred other warning voices reminding him of the march of the Others and the dead walking alongside them, that perhaps family still waited for him too somewhere, hidden away behind veils of uncertainties, likelihoods and doubts. 

They were odds Jon was better off not betting against, another venomous voice hissed inside his mind. The ache spread and spread in an all-consuming conquest, like water filling in every crevice it travelled over, like ice freezing all it touched. Against his will, Jon brought a gloved hand to his heart, pressing against the wound and rubbing it in a vain attempt in willing away the hurt. 

He would not begrudge the reunion of these people, nay, he could not begrudge them; all of these people had bled depthless wounds just as much if not more than he did from the wars the south so coarsely dragged them into. The Gods were good for soothing some of the pain bestowed upon those most unfortunate. He could not begrudge them for it. No matter how much it pained him to see their blessed reunions. No matter how much Jon wished a similar blessing would be given to him someday. 

Desperate as he tried, Jon failed to think about the past he had, of cherished memories he remembered every time he closed his eyes for slumber; not all his memories were blood and darkness and fire and death, even if most of them were. 

One memory was of a time when he thought Maester Luwin’s lessons were the only source of his discomfort and Ser Rodrik’s training his only relief. 

Another memory was of hunting down deers and boars with Robb, laughing and jesting in careless content at the world. 

Jon reminisced of that time where he scooped up Arya so she could pluck the succulent apples from tall trees she was yet too short to reach, riding his shoulders with a peal full of joy. 

One of his fondest memories Jon remembered as he lay in bed awake, troubled and afraid of sleep, was when he stood vigil in case he had to catch Bran, the boy's talent for climbing like that of a young and aloof little rodent. He always said he wanted to learn how to fly. 

Another memory was about tending to the scrapes of Rickon's nodding knees whenever he returned fresh from one of his misadventures, hair tangled like a rat's nest, breathlessly laughing at any joke Jon made. 

Jon even remembered how he had thrown a blanket over Sansa and carried her back to her chambers, a book full of songs and tales still clasped firmly against her chest as she dreamily sighed over dashing princes and gallant knights. Jon had been oh so mindful to be careful and not disturb her, as though she was a creature made of the finest of porcelains. 

And despite the sweetness of his returning memories, one thing haunted him still; he could not discriminate Robb from Bran, or Rickon from Robb, or Bran from Rickon. Neither could he do the same for Arya and Sansa. Their faces were always darkened, a blank slate, faceless, ghosts of his past he tried to chase, but failed to catch up to. They always slipped through his fingers like air. It broke his heart. 

Unable to watch it any longer, Jon was the first to make for the great hall, shadowed closely by his trusted direwolf, Satin and a coterie of men-at-arms trailing behind Ghost and following him inside. Many who were present inclined a dip of deference towards the acting Lord of Winterfell as Jon padded through the dimly lit halls of his old home, some even grouching a small ‘my lord’ in passing. 

Jon found it unnecessary to show such consideration. Who was he still? Their efforts were wasted on a mere bastard like him. But he kept it to himself and returned the courtesy whenever he could for the sake of decorum. Lordship was a duty, not an indulgence as many were wont to think. Reciprocating respect inspired loyalty like nothing else. Jon would not fall for the same mistake and be betrayed by his bannermen like Roose Bolton had erred to do. Playing the game of courtesies and politics was a tasteless occupation, but a crucial talent in times of peril. 

The great hall was packed with men and women sharing ale, concerns and grumbles. Jon heard the oaken doors behind close with a gritting effort as he strode through. Not all of the space was occupied by people of the North, Jon observed keenly, sections drawn and filled with various factions who had participated in the retaking of Winterfell. 

To the right were the Baratheon-minded, Ser Axell Florent seated right in the middle, hovered over like a pot of honey by his southron coloured group. He sided by Godry Farring and his bootlicker Clayton Suggs, the stag enclosed by the inflamed heart standing aloft against the back of the wall. 

To the left were the Northmen seated, Mors Umber, Wyman Manderly, Barbrey Dustin, Rodrik Ryswell, the Flint even, and Robett Glover breaking words like they would break their last bread, reluctant but obliged to. Distrusts still lingered it seemed, and Jon was firm to try and erase such sentiment. The North had to stand united if it wished to survive the coming Long Night. 

He had pardoned the Ryswells and Lady Barbrey when he was informed by Lord Wyman of their crucial part in acting as the loyal allies, only to turn on the Boltons when the moment most favoured it. It still left a bad taste in his mouth, but the weeks had mellowed his harsh judgments and opened the way for more...amenable discussion. According to them, most, if not all, the northern lords had conspired against the Boltons one way or another. Lady Barbrey had not been exempted. If anything, she led the schemes herself, risking her life and limb by sticking closely to Roose Bolton. Jon could not demand her head for playing a mummer, as much as he hated mummer's farces. 

As soon as Robett’s eyes fell on the entering form of Galbart, he rose to his feet hastily and begged the Gods not to play tricks with his eyes, enveloping the brother he once thought forever lost to him in a fervent embrace when he realized it was no conjuration of trickery. The surly faces of the Northmen slackened, some even smiling candidly at the view, easing some of the budding tension reigning supreme in the hall of House Stark. They could use some of the relief. To have some hope returned to them. Hope was all they had left now anyway. 

The last group were huddled together at the end of the hall, all rough bear’s fur and tough sheepskin, brown and ruddy, giving away their name as the free folk. With Tormund’s absence, the men and women of the free folk turned to Val for leadership and the war-maiden with locks bright as golden reeds leaned against the grey wall, arms crossed over her white bearskin cloak while a pair of bone-handled daggers were clutched in her palms, drinking in the occupants of the hall with keen interest. 

The free folk around her were, Jon noted serendipitously, the most silent of the three factions around the hall, murmuring warily in their guttural language and gesticulating with quick motions around. To what end, Jon did not know. Val’s storm crystal eyes spotted Jon entering the hall, the wildling princess offering a curt nod of acknowledgement and a faint smile before she turned her focus back on her men. 

Jon was eternally grateful for Val and Tormund’s efforts. Without them, Jon’s army would have counted two-thousand men less, the bulk of Jon’s army the day he rode out from Castle Black to join King Stannis in his campaign against the Boltons. In his eyes, the free folk had proven their mettle and allegiance, and Jon would not forget that. Loyalty had a price, and he was intending on paying those what they were due. 

As Jon padded through, Longclaw rattling with his movements, the occupants’ mumbles gradually fell to an uneasy silence, all eyes transfixed on the Lord of Winterfell and what he was about to do. Jon’s own smoky eyes fell on the high table, finding it completely empty of any seated body, and once again in bemused realization, Jon was reminded of a painful truth. Even more so when he, with great reluctance, took his place in the middle seat and gazed over the hall. When Jon sat upon the weirwood chair Eddard Stark had lorded the North from did he realize the weight of the responsibility he had inherited. 

Jon cleared his throat audibly, thanked Maester Henly when he placed a flagon full of northern black ale on the table and slipped into the skin of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. It was time to set things to right. He felt Ghost lay down and rest his great skull atop his lap. As Jon settled in his seat, he allowed his fingers to comb through Ghost's fur. 

“My Lords. My Ladies. First and foremost, I am grateful for your presence here today. These past days have been burdening to us all, but we must put to rights all that has been done wrongly to the North. To all of you, and most importantly, to the people. To finally put our minds at ease.” The congregated mass began murmuring their approval, but most of the hall remained silent. Jon pressed the attack. 

“Various subjects will be brought to the discussion, but the three most important ones are the following; the fate of House Bolton.” The growls of disgruntled lords told Jon enough about their opinion. "The retinue of His Grace the late King Stannis. We shall decide the North and its allegiance.” The second Jon spoke of King Stannis Baratheon and his untimely death, tension arose among disapproving lords and hot-blooded Baratheon knights, but Jon would have none of that and silenced the hall curtly with a raised hand. “Third, the issue of the free folk. Now, let us see to House Bolton's fate. Guards! Fetch the Lady Bolton!” 

Resounding footsteps of leather boots echoed out the hall, the doors yet again forced to open as two men-at-arms went in search of the widowed wife of Roose Bolton. Jon had prepared this meeting for days. He was determined how to decide the matters, but the lords of the North had their prerogative to be heard and offer counsel too. The one issue he failed to properly find a solution to was the North’s allegiance. Who would the North follow henceforth? It was not even his to lead. 

Jon had little time to ponder, as the sounds of a wailing babe gained his notice, carried by a homely woman. She was escorted into the great hall, the woman’s chubby arms protectively cradling her child. 

Walda Bolton was thickset and clumsy, dressed plainly in a grey gown much too small for her girth, the seams and buttons threatening to burst from numerous places. She was lacking any grace and finesse in her stuttering gait usually associated with those southron ladies. Lady Bolton was fat as a sow, her chin folding into her neck and wobbling with trepidation and her legs waddled like she was aboard a ship caught in a heavy sea storm. All of it would have had Jon snicker behind his hand in his younger days as a boy. That boy was dead, killed once when he was elected Lord Commander, and once again when he freed of that rank by death. 

The lady was certainly not a sight for sore eyes. Walda Bolton was highborn, aye, but Jon would trust that claim as far as he could he throw her. 

Walda Bolton was crossed between fussing over her child and keeping the lid on her tears, each word a squeak of unease and fear as the hall erupted in hisses and hoots as she trudged forth like a cow towards the butchery. 

A blotch of sympathy painted Jon’s heart at her dismayed sobs before he willed it away and iced it again; this woman was the wife to the late Lord Bolton, he reminded himself. This woman carried his last heir in her arms. The child that could bring back House Bolton from its ashes. He could not afford sympathy for this woman. 

“What name have you given your son, Lady Walda?” Jon’s question caught the plump woman off guard, her eyes doe-like and afraid, as though facing the tip of a poised arrow. 

“H-Harald, my lord, after his father’s father.” Jon nodded gravely, eyes cast down. Harald of House Bolton, the herald of his family’s end. Fitting, Jon thought. 

“Lady Bolton, you stand trial before the lords and ladies of the North. The babe you hold and gave birth to is the last living son of Roose Bolton, the heir to the Dreadfort and House Bolton. Do you understand your position, my lady? The implications of your circumstances?” 

Uncertainly, she dared to look Jon in the eyes, her act of bravery and resolve as sturdy as a foundation of feathers. Her resolve crumbled in an instant, her courage failing her when she needed it most. Walda dipped her trembling chin, droplets of tears still running down her swollen cheeks, frightened beyond sanity. The babe’s wailing subsided in small little fussy whimpers as Walda tightened the clothes wrapping her son in warmth. 

“P-please, Lord Jon…” She collapsed to her knees, a dilapidated tower falling apart. “Spare us! I will return to my father! To the Twins! I swear by the Seven we will never set foot in the North again! Just please, spare us any harm!” 

A thunderous roar, furious and scalding in their rage, erupted as the northern lords rose indignantly to their feet. 

“How dare you!? You dare plead for mercy after what your vile father did to our king!? To make matters worse, getting in bed with the traitor who shoved a dagger through our king’s heart!? You disgusting pig sow! You and your family are a blight to be wiped off the face of the world! We shall see to that ourselves! House Bolton will never be again!” 

A particular lord had clasped the hilt of his longsword, Brandon Tallhart Jon realized, and was about to unsheathe it until Jon rose from his seat and decided to intervene. 

“You will stay your hands inside this castle, my lords! Not a single drop of blood will be spilt in this hall! Unhand your sword guard or your hand is forfeit, Brandon Tallhart!” Jon barked out harshly, furious that someone could think he could spill blood in these revered halls. A few lords immediately backed down, cowed, but some still looked ready to murder the Frey woman. 

A low growl escaped Brandon, but Mors Umber was quick to diffuse his anger as he clasped his shoulder and roughly dragged him back to the glaring crowd. The lords reined in their anger at Jon’s command, somewhat, and resumed their perch on the bench, still grumbling but no longer crying for blood. 

With the situation back in control, Jon sat down on the chair and exhaled a large sigh, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Jon’s other hand felt clammy underneath the wooden table, and rubbing them on his thighs did little to make the cold and wetness vanish. 

“The lords speak truly. Many wounds have been inflicted upon us, upon the North and its people, by the hands of your serpentine father and husband. Your family deserves every bit of scorn and hatred they are subject of.” A sob wrecked the fat lady’s body and she began to whimper. Each word leaving Jon’s lips felt like a whip crackling in the air. He did not adopt a soothing tone, he deliberately emphasized with such an underlying tone the depths of the Freys’ and Boltons’ crimes; he had no patience for subtleties. “But nevertheless, the sins of a father are not a daughter’s to carry, or a son’s.” 

Some of the wiser northerners picked up at what Jon was hinting, looking outraged and ready to stand up and protest again, but Jon did not let them have the floor. 

“House Bolton will end with your son, that I will assure you. But I will not allow a mere babe fresh from the teat suffer under the crimes he had no part in.” Jon stood up to his full length and bellowed. “At the age of ten and four, Harald Bolton, should he live to that day, will ride for the Night’s Watch and swear the solemn vows of a black brother! He will swear off wives, claims to land and children! The Bolton line will die with the last son honourably serving the realm as a black brother! Let it be known that the line of House Bolton will no longer bear the title Lord of the Dreadfort! Let this be seen as justice! For it is justice the way House Stark would have wanted for the infant son of a traitor!” 

The hall remained silent as Jon took his seat again, the grumbling of earlier stashed away, replaced by mere scowls and grimaces. Jon knew the lords of the North were not appeased by the decision, but that held no merit for him. It was impossible to satisfy everyone’s wish, and Jon was wont of it himself to accept compromises for the sake of progression. This was nothing better. 

“The Dreadfort will fall under the possession of the North until its fate is decided further. I hereby declare you exiled to the south, Lady Bolton. Your son will live his days as my ward. A castellan will be appointed personally to oversee the Dreadfort. That is all I will say on the matter of the Dreadfort and House Bolton. Now, bring me Lord Harald.” Jon gesticulated for the Lady Bolton to hand over her child, but she did not budge. Jon's mood darkened. "I said, Lady Bolton, hand over your son..." 

Finally, though with great reluctance, a wet nurse managed to pry the child out of Lady Bolton's arm, who kept on whimpering softly to not take away her child. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. 

Bringing the infant to him, Jon took Harald into his arms and gazed down at his slumbering face. _Such innocence...tainted by his lineage. Forever haunted by the sins of his father. You will have to forgive me for this. _

Jon brought a careful finger to Harald's cheek and traced its pink cheek. Ramsay had been an innocent babe too once. Was Jon making a mistake? Would he be able to put a mere babe to death? 

The little creature twitched, a coo whistling through his pouting lips. With a hand, Jon ordered Satin to call the wet nurse back and come take away this babe. 

Allowing himself to inhale a great amount of air, Jon settled back in his seat. One issue down, three to go, and he already felt his squared shoulders ache from pressure. 

“Next will be the free folk and their circumstances.” Jon looked to Val, who stared right back at him expectantly. "The free folk and the Northerners fought together, and we took Winterfell from Ramsay Bolton's dead clutches." Despite the enmity, the northerners were bound by honour to recognize the efforts the free folk had poured in this campaign, and so they did the only way they knew how; through acknowledging grumbles and terse nods. "For their efforts, the free folk will be given sanctuary here, in the North, until such time comes for them to either decide whether they wish to return, or remain here, underneath the laws of the Lord of Winterfell." 

"We do not kneel, Jon Snow." Val spoke, the words every single wildling was born to know since their birth present like a living entity, and all the lords and ladies looked at her warily. "The free folk are not here to swear their fealty to some lord in a castle." 

"Nor am I telling you to, Val." Jon admitted, but he adopted a crisp look. "But you owe me your gratitude. Mance Rayder is dead, and the free folk is without a leader. They look to chieftains and warriors such as yourself and Tormund now. Were it not for my efforts, you would not stand here, and neither would the rest of your tribes." 

Val was smart and understanding, Jon knew. Her craft for diplomacy had shown through once with Queen Selyse. She knew when to rebel, and when to adhere. 

Val nodded at his words and even tried her hand in a curtsey. "For that, you have indeed my thanks, Lord Snow. Whatever we owe you or not, we will not kneel to..." Beautiful grey-blue eyes twinkled as she smirked. "...but I will call you friend of the free folk and listen to your request of my own free will. The free folk will not harm these lands. I will make sure the other clans know this too. I swear upon the Old Gods." 

Pleased, Jon scratched Ghost behind his ear and chalked up the patience to address the final subject. 

"Now, we only have the matter of-" 

“Spare yourself the trouble, Lord Snow. I have no need for a northern bastard to speak about the affairs of the realm. I can do that myself.” Axell Florent strode around the room with his bandy legs, strutting like a limping fowl, his brightly polished cuirass reflecting the flames of the burning hearth, not a single scar of battle marring the piece of armour. 

Did this man even see battle up close? Or stain his sword with the blood of men hellbent on cutting off his head? His armour was far too pristine for an anointed knight. That, or the poor boy working as Axell Florent’s squire must have polished his hands free of any skin to have the metal shine like that after every battle. 

Jon creased his eyebrows, outraged by Axell’s crass behaviour, red threatening to paint his vision completely. His burnt hand closed into a tight fist, nails digging into his palms painfully, anger bubbling inside him. Then, he felt Ghost rub his skull over his lap, nuzzling his hand. The anger dissipated like smoke. 

Nary a northerner around looked anything but annoyed to have this stout southron mummer of a ser prance around the room and waggling his tongue how it was his righteous prerogative to receive the fealties of all the vassals once loyal to King Robert, and by right of succession, to King Stannis, then Shireen, and finally, on behalf of this boy called Edric Storm, a bastard born from the loins of the late king whose wont was to bed any pretty wench who caught his fancy. This one had the fortune to be Axell's grandnephew, same as Shireen had been his grandniece. Highborn and educated. And related to the Florents, most of all. 

“To denounce your loyalty to King Edric is to break faith with the royal house! There is no greater offence in the eyes of the Lord! One realm, one King, one God! Your previous king suffered under his hubris for declaring himself sovereign! Take stock of his mistakes and swear allegiance to the one true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! By the will of the Lord of Light, R’hllor, bend the knee to King Edric Baratheon or suffer the consequences!” 

If he expected for all the lords to cow and drop to their knees at his feet, swayed to swear eternal allegiance to this newly appointed King Edric by his passionate speech, Jon was sure Axell Florent was in for a great disappointment. 

Jon drank in the barely restrained fury of Mors Umber and the Glover brothers. Lady Dustin frowned disdainfully and Wyman Manderly’s scornful eyes were masked behind a veil of carefully practised politeness. Lady Maege and her daughter Alysane, however, seemed not ashamed of their scorn, glowering openly at the foolish summer knight. The mountain clans, simpler and more outgoing with their opinions, were brandishing their bludgeons; Torghen Flint and his sons were about to cave in Axell Florent’s face for his disrespect. 

Even Val and the free folk were bearing their fangs, all tension between Umbers and Thenns nowhere to be seen when they sat close to each other and the occasional frown and glare was thrown between them like a hefty pile of horse dung. It seemed the North and the free folk found common ground on who to dislike more than each other. The foolish toad did not even realize how much he had stirred the northerners' blood with his demands, as he smugly reassumed his seat next to his guards. 

"My lords! My lords!" Torghen Flint roused, standing up from the bench, his great form casting a shadow on the ground. "Here is what I think of this southron little fawn." He spat a fat dollop onto the ground. The whole of the North rumbled, cheering and laughing, but Jon did not find it entertaining. Ser Axell glared disgustedly at the insult. A lump clawed its way through Jon's throat, chills running down his back. This did not seem to end well. 

The chieftain of the Flints met Axell's glare with his own snarl beneath his grubby beard. "The North has had enough of you and your kings lording over me and mine. We have suffered, we have bled, we have fought for our homes to be finally free of southron games. When the mountain clans heard what had happened to the Ned and his boys, we pledged our axes to King Stannis, swearing to avenge our lord. What do you know of honour? What do you know of strength? We find our friends on the battlefield, and your shiny lump of an arse was nowhere to be found when we stormed Winterfell! King Stannis was strong, he had iron inside his veins. He would have been a worthy leader to follow, but he is dead now, and I will not bend my knee to your bastard, my lord. The North remembers, my lord..." Then he turned to Jon. "It was a Stark we have always followed, and only a Stark I will follow again." He slammed his axe on the ground, kneeling. "It was Jon Snow who avenged King Robb! He took back Winterfell with a direwolf snapping at his heels and an army at his back! He tore down the traitor Boltons and took their head for his own! There sits the one true heir to the Crown of Winter! Jon Snow, the last son of House Stark!" 

Jon sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, his grip on the armrest painfully tight. Surely, they could not imply...? From the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Maege and Lord Galbart stand as well, coming forward. Mormont flew through the window and sat atop his table. 

"King! King!" 

"Aye, it was Jon Snow who took back his ancestral seat, brought winter to House Bolton and threw back the Freys to their filthy lands down south. It is thanks to Ned Stark's only son that we stand here, within these halls yet again, done with Bolton tyranny and united with our family." Lord Galbart said powerfully for all the lords to hear, an arm around his brother and a hand on Larence' shoulder. 

"King Robb had faith in Jon Snow, he said so himself! 'None knows the North better than my brother on the Wall'." Lady Maege folded a parchment out of her leathers. "This is our late king's will! A will he forged with sound mind, moments before his death at the hands of those Frey cravens! His younger brothers are no more, killed by the traitor Theon Greyjoy! With this act, King Robb legitimized his brother and named him the heir to his legacy! Named him Jon Stark!" 

Jon rushed from the high table and grasped the wrinkled parchment from Lady Maege's hand, careful not to tear it, for it was yellow and mottled with dried spots. It had weathered much, but it still looked legible. 

The writ, the words, the seal at the bottom...Robb's hand was always splotched with ink after a long lesson. His fingers brushed across the writing, memories, sweet memories, painful memories surging through him. He closed his eyes, savouring them for a second, despite the pain they inflicted. He preferred the pain over the numbness. It made him remember that he was alive and breathing. 

"Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark!" Alysane Mormont shouted, several northerners vocally expressing their agreement. 

"Hear! Hear!" 

"Jon Snow, no, Jon Stark, avenged his brothers! Avenged the Red Wedding! He is the White Wolf! The King in the North!" 

All of the northern lords came to stand and drew their swords, chanting 'The King in the North! The King in the North!' 

Ser Axell Florent was outraged, frothing like a rabid dog, his fury clear on his face as he shook in his armour. He stormed away with his entourage, but none who took note. 

Axell's footsteps were drowned by the shouts of the northern lords as they kept shouting 'The King in the North!'. 

And they kept on saying it well into the late hours. 

* * *

**THE PRINCESS OF WINTERFELL**

Alayne stared at the great painting of Lysa Arryn for quite some time now, hands folded demurely over her stomach, chin jutted and canted upwards, eyes wide awake as she stared forward. She kept scrutinizing every detail of the artwork; Lysa's cheekbones, the form of her chin, the intensity of her eyes, the shell of her ears, and most of all, the brightness of her Tully hair. 

It was a painting where she was newly wed to Lord Jon Arryn, fresh and slender and still sound of mind, her auburn hair shining like polished bronze. Though, sadness in her soulful eyes was still very much present. Lord Royce said the painting was made for her ten-and-eighth nameday, already through her loveless marriage a few years. 

When Alayne came to the Eyrie for the first time alongside Fa- Petyr Baelish, Lady Arryn did not even deign her a glance, immediately simpering like a lovestruck maiden at Lord Baelish, like he was a knight in a song bearing her favour for a tourney. That day, disappointment and rejection had followed her every wake. She did not know why. What did Lady Arryn mean to her? What was she to her that caused such dismay to well up inside her when she refused to even acknowledge her? 

The stories about Petyr's and Lady Arryn's history were well known; he had grown up as a ward under her father's roof, and Lady Arryn, then merely Lysa Tully, had been infatuated with the boy. So much, she had given him a maiden's most treasured gift. 

Lying came easy to her. Convincing herself of illusions and apparitions came easier to her still. Alayne had been tricked, or tricked herself all the time, wilfully, she knew not the difference, that she was some baseborn girl with no mother and an ambitious lowborn father. A lonely girl with only a grasping father and not a single other person to call her blood. 

And then, she deluded herself with such an absurdity; for a while, Alayne had given the Lady Lysa Arryn the place of her mother, knowing not what else to make of her past. She heard as such from the lords and ladies of the Vale too. Whispers that she had been born during some time after Robert's Rebellion, the result of a dalliance between Petyr and Lysa. Yesterday, during her bath time, her hair had turned auburn, bright and red like tendrils of fire. Her hair was auburn today as well, for she had waived the brown hair dyes her handmaidens insisted she put on. It only served to further fuel her assumptions. Looking at the painting now, the resemblance was uncanny. 

Now, she knew better. Alayne remembered again. Alayne remembered that she was not Alayne Stone at all. She was someone else. She was... 

"...beautiful back then, wasn't she?" Myranda emerged from the shades, simpering. She had taken Harry and Lyn into her care the night day prior, putting both men on house arrest. They stood side by side, admiring the painting together. 

Her friend's eyes were like gems in their gleam, looking her up and down briefly with interest, lingering fleetingly on her hair. Auburn was striking, after all. 

Alayne nodded. "She was. I only saw Lady Arryn for a brief moment before she was murdered so tragically. I heard her sister was even more beautiful." 

"The late Lady Stark?" 

Again, Alayne nodded. 

Myranda let out a soft chuckle. "When I was but a girl still following the flap of my lady mother's skirt, Lady Arryn arrived at the Gates on a white filly, rose-cheeked and wide-eyed, looking around herself like a lost child. For the first time, she had seen mountains, my dear lady mother told me later, and most likely, the view frightened her into a deep silence. Most ladies I was used to were so loquacious and simpering." Myranda gave a nostalgic smile. "I learned my craft from them, yet none of them matched Lady Lysa. I found the new Lady Arryn so beautiful, I went in search for some gentian flowers, for they reminded me of her eyes, deep blue and soft. She was always so dismal and frowning, as if the world had taken away her lover from her. When I gave her those flowers on a dreary winter solstice eve, with the hopes to banish the sadness in her eyes, to my great horror, the lady began to cry instead. She had always been so sad." As she said the last part, Myranda looked straight into her eyes. She did not only mean the late Lady of the Vale. 

Alayne's blue eyes came to settle on her friend. "You know what she means to me. Or meant, rather..." 

For all her cheer and mischief, Myranda loosened her shoulders and looked at her with naked sympathy. Myranda's heart was as robust as her figure, firm and steady and so loving. She would very well like to be held by her. Alayne teared up; the wish to remember how it felt to know true comfort again was clotting the channel of her throat tightly. 

Myranda came to stand next to her and twined her fingers with Alayne's. "When my uncle, Lord Royce, told us what happened at the Twins, the whole of the Vale was ready to don its armour, draw its sword and march on the Freys for their disgraceful betrayal." Myranda's hand squeezed hers in comfort. "House Royce and House Stark have always been good friends. We wished to avenge Robb Stark and pleaded with Lady Lysa to join the War of the Five Kings, so that we could see justice be done, but it was not meant to be. On behalf of my family, please, accept our humble apology for not coming to your brother's aid, Lady Sansa." 

For that was who she was, was she not? Alayne Stone had been just a fabrication, a façade, a sweet lie Sansa had embraced, so that she could forget the pain, the heartbreak, everything that had any tethers to House Stark. Alayne was a girl without brothers, a girl without a sister. A girl who knew no pain and loss. A girl alone in this harsh and cruel world. A girl who did not know how grief could wound someone. The scars of loss did not mar the canvas of her back. But Sansa Stark's did. She remembered who she was again, at least. Petyr's death was like an uncloaking, an epiphany that frightened and gladdened her. She was Lady Sansa Stark, proud daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. Proud sister to King Robb Stark and Brandon Stark. Proud sister to Rickon and Arya Stark, and proud half-sister to Lord Commander Jon Snow. 

The last of the Starks. 

Before she even knew what came over her, a series of wretched sobs shook her body painfully. Tears had started falling down her cheeks, fat and salty and tired and ugly tears of grief, leaving a sad wet trail in their wake. 

Sansa mourned for the family she lost, mourned the innocence that was killed inside her, mourned the injustice done upon her family. Sansa cared not for herself; any tragedy that came over her family, she would have happily taken it for herself, shouldered it all and suffered piercing strike, if it meant having those she loved and lost were breathing and healthy again. 

Sansa wept for the tragedy that was House Stark. She did not merely cry, but wept, an ugly show of raw grief and sorrow, for her entire soul wept along with her, shattered and alone by this solitude that came to follow her like a plague. By the end of it all, Sansa felt like she had no bones anymore to lift her up. 

Myranda had her wrapped in a tight embrace, her strong arms giving her warmth and security. Sansa pressed her face against the softness of her large bosom, for once being selfish enough to not worry that she was wetting her friend's dress with her tears. Myranda's caring but firm hand stroked her hair, whispering sweet nothings into her ear as comfort. They stood there for a moment, basking in the glow of the candles, nothing but silence around them. 

Eventually, Sansa calmed herself enough that she could distance herself from Myranda's warm embrace and stand straight, hands resting atop the older woman's shoulder. Sansa's back was erect and she held her head up proudly. 

"Thank you, my lady, for your loyalty. I will never forget your love for me." Remembering the courtesies Septa Mordane and her mother drilled into her, Sansa curtsied prettily to Myranda. The first one in so long. It was cathartic, in a sense. 

"Oh, none of that, you silly girl." Myranda chimed lightly, pulling her back for a little peck on the lips. Sansa gasped, to which Myranda further simpered at. "I've come to grow fond of you, my dear. For all your tragedies and suffering, you've retained an almost ethereal innocence about you, something that just begs to be protected." Sansa did not like the sound of that, even if the sentiment was touching. Yet again seen as some pretty little bird in a gilded cage. A bitter taste spread across her tongue. Sansa hated being seen as a hapless little girl living by the charity of others. Was this any different? "Though, I have to be fair with you, my lady." There it was again, Myranda's predatory aspiration, shining like a dagger pressed to her throat. "We would highly avail from this turn of events. With Harry at our mercy, Lady Waynwood has suddenly become much more...amenable to certain suggestions." 

A fierce pang hit her chest, a fist against her ribcage, something fierce and startled and hurt coiling inside her stomach, a nest of vipers entangling and hissing deceit and duplicity. All over her back people had made coin from her miseries, using her as some pretty tool to further garner their influence and interests, a key to some hidden vault stored with treasure and power. The key to the North, Lord Tywin once described her as he married her off to Tyrion Lannister, nothing but a means to an end for him. 

First the Tyrells tried to seize her like a wild chicken laying gold eggs, and when the Lannisters caught a whiff of their plot, they did it too. Petyr was what confused her most. He had been good to her, always, tending to her needs and whims, gentle as the petals of a mint flower, which once upon a time had earned him her affection. But Petyr was not only Petyr. He was also Littlefinger, the lord who whispered in Cersei's ears with a sly smile and scheming eyes. Littlefinger and his devious practices was no friend of hers. Were the Royces also complicit in such practices? The thought made her almost cry, but she perished it before it could take root. 

Petyr had been dealt with rather ruthlessly, like one would treat a vicious sickness. While Sansa knew not what exactly she had sloshed in his wine that fateful day, it was strong enough that it rendered him into a sleep he refused to wake up from. Maester Coleman confirmed it. His heart no longer hammered with life. 

Sansa was not blind nor stupid, as most believed her to be. She knew poison. She read about it in King's Landing, and before that, in Winterfell. How poison was a woman's way of killing. It all made sense when she sat on her bed and thought about it. 

"Come along, Lady Sansa, Sweetrobin is about to commence Ser Harry's trial. We must not be late, elsewise the handsome fool will find himself flying out of the moon door before he can even name his second bastard." Looping their arms together, Myranda tugged her beside herself towards the great hall of the Gates of the Moon, but Sansa stayed her feet. 

"Princess..." 

Myranda batted her lashes. "Excuse me, my lady?" 

Sansa squared her shoulders, confidence fuelled by determination. She was done suffering the pity of others. She was finished being treated as a meek girl. Sansa Stark would have it no more. 

"I was the betrothed of a king, and after that, the sister of one. I will be addressed properly, dear Randa." 

For a second, Myranda had no words to say, lips parted slightly in surprise and eyes wide with bemusement, but she was never one to allow surprise to rule her bones for too long. 

With a formal curtsey, her dear friend dipped her chin and bowed. "Forgive me, my princess, I did not mean any offence." 

Sansa swallowed thickly. "And none was taken, my lady." 

Her friend chuckled, looking through her lashes at her with something akin to heed, like one would regard a dull knife. Dull knives could be polished into a threat. 

The walked in charged silence towards the hall where Harry's trial was being held, measured steps clicking against the tiles beneath their feet painstakingly. 

"Make him fly! Fly, I say! I want him dead for this!" A young voice shrieked, unmistakably Robert's, spoilt and bratty in his wroth. 

"Oh my, seems the trial has already begun." Myranda tittered airily, hastening their pace. "Hopefully, his lordship has not yet fully lost his patience. Putting Harry to death is tantamount to-" 

"-kinslaying." Sansa finished grimly. Robert could absolutely not do that. Kinslaying was an affront to the Gods, old and new, a stain that would curse him later on. He would forever brand himself as an anathema, looked at with mistrusting eyes. Whether he knew what that entailed or not mattered little; it had to be prevented all the same. 

They stepped into the great hall in tandem, already a large crowd witnessing the trial of Ser Harry. He was on his knees, dressed only in tattered rags. Five days locked up in the dungeons beneath the castle had done him no favour; Harry was grimy and slumped, sandy blond hair streaked with dirt and falling flat across the sides of his head. There were bruises beneath his eyes and tears in his trousers. He was not used to cots and steel bars, poor man. 

"Please, cousin, have mercy..." Harry rasped, coughing, the shackles around his wrists rattling incessantly. "I had no part in Lord Baelish' schemes. 

"Lies! You want me dead so you can be Lord of the Eyrie yourself! I know it!" Robert continued to shriek, The crowd parted for her and Myranda, opening like a door and bidding them entrance. Sansa recognized most of the Vale nobility present. Lord Nestor Royce and Lady Anya Waynwood spoke to each other secretly, the Lady of Ironoaks muttering in hushed tones while the Lord of the Gates regarded her silently. 

Most of the Vale nobility paid her little heed, the bastard daughter of the late Lord Protector as noteworthy as a bushel of wheat amongst the harvest. Only Lord Yohn Royce spared her a glance, brief as it was, but his hulking form stood straighter as she passed him. Sansa swore she heard a soft 'Your Grace'. 

Robert noticed her in an instant. "Alayne! Come here, stand beside me! We can watch Harrold fly together!" 

The nobles were squirming in their places as Lord Robert kept on shouting for Harry to be tossed through the moon door. While the Gates laid at the feet of the Giant's Lance and no moon door was ever, nary a lord dared to tell Robert that there was no moon door for the lordling to dispose of his enemies through. 

When Sansa reached the dais and stood near her cousin, smiled tightly at his spindly form. Robert glanced at her and jarringly kept staring at her hair. 

"Your hair is different, Alayne. Did you dye it? I liked brown more. Change it back." The flippant command annoyed Sansa, the whiny undertone of his voice grating on her nerves, but she remained smiling. 

"I'm sorry, sweetling, but the dye was brown. Red is my natural hair colour. I like it this way mo-" 

"Change it back! I don't like red! It reminds me of blood! It reminds me of Mother! I don't like it!" His bottom lip quivered at that last part. Robert's already runny eyes started to water more now, tell-tale signs of his inevitable fit. Sansa felt an enormous flood of sympathy wash over her. 

Her hand swiped through Robert's thin and soft brown tresses in an attempt to calm his anger. "Oh my poor sweet boy..." Maester Colemon worried beside her, wringing his hands like a sinner about to admit his crimes to a septon. Sansa fixed him a sharp stare. "See to Lord Robert's ailments, Maester Colemon." He nodded, about to make for his office, but Sansa had more to say. "You will not feed him sweetmilk anymore. Give him something else. Anything that is not harmful to his health if given too much accidentally." 

His gnarly hands toyed with his chains. "I could brew a tea made of willow bark for his lordship. That could alleviate some of his frustrations." 

"Good. See to it, then. Please, be quick about it." She kept stroking Robert's hair, nursing him to her side as she watched Maester Colemon make for his herb chambers. 

"I want him dead...dead. Dead, I say...he wants what is mine." Robert murmured possessively against the silk of her dress, lips pushing against her ribcage as he pressed his face insistently on her side, smearing the mucous of his wet nose on her. Sansa was not sure whether he spoke about the maester or Harry. Same as she wondered whether Robert was speaking about her or not. Robert was possessive of those which he viewed were his, like he was possessive of his dolls and toys. 

Myranda stood beside her father, Lord Nestor, chewing her full bottom lip. She was not tearing away her eyes from Harry's kneeling form, continuing to gnaw at the skin of her lip while tightly holding her hands together. She was worried about him. Sansa was too, truth be told, yet if it all came down to Harry's death, she found that the urge of letting a tear run for Harry's execution did not come to her. Harry was an oaf, but an innocent oaf, his only crime enjoying dalliances with pretty maidservants and merchant daughters. Allowing his death would, at best, guilt her for a day or two. An inconvenience all the same. 

Then, Sansa realized something, and to affirm that suspicion, she once again narrowed her eyes at Myranda, scrutinizing her from her seat next to her cousin. Sansa had come to know Myranda as a trophy hunter during her time spent here in the Vale. She was ambitious and determined to see her ambitions come to life. Myranda had once told her that her father tried to arrange a marriage between her and Harry, but was spurned by Lady Waynwood. 

We could highly avail from this turn of events, Myranda had said. Harry was her opportunity to becoming Lady of the Vale possibly, but Harry was an opportunity hanging from a fine silk threat now. 

Sansa had an idea. 

Putting down her disgust, Sansa lifted his teary face so he could face her. "Now, Sweetrobin, you must listen to me now. You cannot order Harry's death." 

"Why not? He wanted me dead. He's a traitor! A traitor! I want to make him fly for his treason!" Robert shrieked, slamming his tiny fist against the armrest of his high seat. Sansa fretted if he had bruised his delicate skin or not. 

Again, Sansa attempted to soothe him, choosing her words placatingly, her hand softly caressing Robert's trembling one. "Sweetling, if you would put to death Harry, your cousin no less, you would make me so very sad. The Gods, old and new, don't look kindly upon kinslayers. It would tear me apart if they decide to frown upon you. Please, my strong and gentle knight, be a merciful and good lord and spare him execution. You're stronger and better than petty vengeance. He is innocent, he had no part in Petyr's scheme. Harry was just as horrified as I was when he heard him. Is that not so, Ser Lothor?" 

The man in question rattled out of his musings, sharply shooting his chin up to look at Sansa. Ser Lothor had been thrown in the dungeons as well, but eventually got released from his confines at Myranda's order. The knight had little to gain from Robert's death and served Lord Baelish loyally through his time here. He was of little note, anyway. At most what Sansa could expect from him was that he would leave the Vale as an exile and search for employment elsewhere. Sansa told her friend otherwise. Lothor had yet a part to play. 

"Yes, my lady, it is as you say." Lothor admitted, coming to stand in the middle of the clearing. "While I was guarding the chambers, I had no suspicion whether Ser Harry wished the little lord ill. The late Lord Petyr wanted to include both him and Ser Lyn Corbray, but before anything decisive could happen, the Lord Protector died." 

Robert's face grew red with anger. "I don't care! I don't care! I DON'T CARE! I want him dead! Make him fly! Make him-" Robert stuttered in his shouting, shutting up like a clam all of a sudden. Seizures started to take over. His frail body began to tremble, spasms that looked painful and ruthless causing him to shriek like a banshee. 

Sansa cradled her sickly cousin to herself. "Where is Maester Colemon with that willow brew!? Call for the maester, at once!" 

The guards dispersed in search for the maester. Sansa tried her hardest to calm the boy lord down, but he kept stuttering incoherencies. Robert started to froth at the mouth and Sansa feared for his life. 

Maester Colemon was almost hauled by the guards into the great hall, struggling to keep the contents of his arms from falling to the ground as he was dragged rather roughly to the dais. Sansa heard Lord Nestor ordering them to soften their hold on the frantic man, so he could go about his work properly. When he made it to Robert's seat, he gently grasped his chin and opened his mouth, bringing a vial to his lips. Tipping it over, a green fluid fell out of the bottle before Maester Colemon corked it shut and stowed it away. 

Robert grew less angry by the second, his arms and legs no more trashing about. Finally, he grew pliant and sacked in his chair, eyelids fluttering sleepily. Sansa ushered for a nursemaid to come and take the young Lord Arryn away to his chambers so he could rest his paroxysms out. 

With Robert taken away, the Vale court looked at each other, eyebrows knitted together and congregating amongst themselves in quick whispers. With their lord incapacitated, who would now take charge of this trial? 

"Princess Sansa, would you please take Lord Robert's seat?" Myranda whispered into her ear, breath tingling the hairs of her neck. Sansa reeled back, startled. 

"I could not possibly assume such a thing." Her answer came in a scandalized hiss, willing to convey her shock, but Myranda only quirked an eyebrow at her. 

"But you can. You are a princess, Sansa Stark. Show these lords and ladies what that means. What it means to be the sister of a king. And as Robert's closest kin, it is well within your rights. Have you not been the Lady of the Eyrie in all but name since you've come here, taking such good care of our True Warden of the East, like a sister would her little brother? Like a mother would her child?" Myranda's little smile tugged wider, her pink cheeks round and pretty. Sansa felt like she was being seduced, like a sailor falling to the temptations of a cooing siren. Myranda kept throwing her eyes towards Robert's seat. "Go on, sit it, and cast judgment over Ser Harrold. Show us your fangs." 

Whether it was an act of madness or not, Sansa rose from her little chair and did as she was bid, scampering a little before taking seat on Robert's chair. The whole grew silent immediately. 

"Ser Harrold Hardyng," His handsome face caked with dirt and whatnot lifted at the mention of his name, fluttering eyes unfocused, chains chattering while he twitched in his place. "despite my cousin's desire to have you executed, it will not be done so. You were ever only a pawn in a dead man's grand scheme, nothing more. For the crime of conspiring to kill Robert Arryn, True Warden of the East and Lord Paramount of the Vale, in light of the evidence Ser Lothor Brune just now provided, I find you innocent." 

Many who were presented let out an aggregated sigh at the verdict. Sansa shifted in her place, not feeling comfortable sitting in Robert's seat for much longer. Yet she would be a liar if the temporary control of power did not taste as sweet as honey. All her life, Sansa had been at the mercy of others, and they had shown her no mercy. Now, as an act of spite towards Joffrey, towards Cersei and Meryn and Tywin and all the others who hurt her, Sansa did precisely the opposite of what they would have done; show mercy. 

Before she had the chance to step down, Lord Jon Lynderly came forward, the stomps of his greaves hitting the stone floor sounding like rocks breaking apart. 

"Pray tell, my lady, why have you taken perch on our lord's seat and cast judgment over a man not yours to adjudicate? You had no right to." He sneered acerbically, and Sansa chewed her bottom lip in unease, finding his piercing stare pinning her to her place. Sansa felt exposed, as if she was stripped of all garments and forced to huddle for warmth. 

Myranda left her seat and climbed down the stairs of the dais, smiling her mischievous simper, to which Lord Lynderly further pursed his lips. Lord Jon had been one of Petyr's accomplices, Sansa remembered. Only the Gods knew what kind of indignation and chagrin was coursing through him at losing a valuable ally like that. 

"My lord, there sits the only woman worthy of such deference. She is, after all, royalty." She twirled on her feet and theatrically gestured towards her. "May I present the last living trueborn child of Lord Eddard Stark and sister of the late King in the North, Robb Stark, Princess Sansa." 

All of the Vale nobility gasped jointly, murmurs filling the hall as dozens of lords and ladies began to wonder what this all meant. Sansa could feel her skin crawl as she was regarded by beady little eyes, some curious, some suspicious, some even looking downright predatorily. 

They were gawking at her so shamelessly, like she was some exotic animal on display, thrown a slab of meat for a trick. Her blood boiled within her veins at their blatant leering, looking at her with judging eyes. These lords and ladies, some of whom had ties to the North, shared blood and culture and faith with her people. These lords who did nothing in her beloved brother's name, raised nary a finger to help him in his cause, their precious Lady Arryn binding them all to inaction with her refusal to come and aid her sister's son, her nephew. 

She wanted to put an end to their self-righteous judging right this instant. So, she stood up and assumed her most courteous demeanour, pulling up the soft fabric of her grey gown and making her way down as well. 

Sansa stood in the middle of the clearing. Looking around herself, Sansa summoned up all the courage she could muster. Be brave, like Robb, like Father, like the Kings of Winter. She was not alone in this. The spirit of her family resided within her, and she drew strength from their silent support. 

The throng of Vale nobles had made a circle around her. She had taken centre stage. Now it was time to unmake these theatrics. "When King Robert's Rebellion sparked, the people of Westeros, high- and lowborn alike, spoke how three great lords bound together by marriage proclaimed that they would forever come to the aid of each other in their times of need. They promised to treat each other's kingdoms as brothers would. They promised to never rescind their oath on the blood of their fathers and forefathers. The smallfolk spoke with such reverence about the great northern alliance between the North, the Vale and the Riverlands. Starks, Arryns, Tullys, the depth of our houses run deep. We share blood, all of us, Not only they joined in this oath. Royce, Blackwood, Manderly, Lynderly, Mallister, Flint." Guilt started to mar the majority of vale lords. They knew what Sansa was hinting at. "All of us are bound by blood, one way or another. When my brother, Robb Stark, marched on the south to avenge our father, the river lords joined him in his just cause, honouring the promise their liege lord made, but the Vale remained neutral. The knights of the Vale were ordered to stay in their holdfasts." 

For a moment, Sansa demurred, her gaze fixed on the dark grey tiles of the floor. Her words had to be carefully picked, for she could endlessly spew the contents of her burdened heart. This was no chastising from her part. 

Her glance lifted again, meeting each of the vale lords evenly. "I hold no ill will towards any of you. I know why my aunt did what she did. Fear is a powerful venom, and Aunt Lysa was poisoned with more than one sickness of the mind. She saw enemies in every corner, and it drove her paranoid. I've come here before you all, asking only seeking sanctuary as the last kin of your lord. What I only ask of you, my lords and ladies, please..." Her tone took on a softer edge, her fingers brushing across the soft samite of her velvet grey dress. Sansa would not beg, but she was not above imploring. She had done that all her life in King's Landing, and all it gave her was heartache and disappointment. Queen Cersei still called for her head, and the bounty had been tripled last time she heard. A thousand gold dragons for a little girl was a dream for any rogue. "...I only ask of you to not throw me at Cersei's feet. The Lannisters have wronged me and my family so much, and they plan to wrong me still if I am to be returned to their arms. If not for your honour, do it for the sake of your conscious." 

With bated breath, Sansa waited for any response to filter out of the lords, but they held their tongue firmly in their mouths. They only kept staring at their feet like contrite children berated for their disobedience, preferring to ignore the painful truth which their apathy brought about. Sansa had not been firm or harsh in her speech, but all could read between the lines the meaning of her words; they had abandoned those who needed them in their direst time. 

"The princess speaks harshly..." Sansa flinched as she heard Lady Waynwood. The elderly woman was not known for her leniency. The air was thick with nervous energy, unspoken words swirling in the air like the chants of a hex. The Lady of Ironoaks was as hard as the name of her keep, but as Sansa dared to meet her eyes, Lady Anya's wrinkled face told of deep regret, of conflict, and many more emotions Sansa could not decipher yet knew of all the same."...but she speaks truly as well. We were cravens, all of us. We stuck our heads in the sand and deluded ourselves that it was honest and honourable to listen to the commands of a fear-stricken widow whose only concern was the safety of her sickly little son. I understood Lady Arryn's woes, but honour demanded of her, and us as well, to come to King Robb's aid when he raised his banners in revolt against the ill-conceived Joffrey. Mayhaps we could have made a decisive difference." To the utter shock of anyone present, Lady Waynwood dipped into a curtsy before her, head bowed in a show of deference. "As Lady of Ironoaks and member of the Lords Declarant, I hereby humbly express my deepest regrets for not honouring my duties as an honest noble of the Vale." 

Sansa was unable to formulate a proper response, for Lady Waynwood's declaration had robbed her of the ability to speak, think even. This was not what she had expected. 

She never got the chance to respond, for Lord Yohn Royce nodded from the sides and come forth as well. His fierce and intimidating armour shone like a beacon in the hall, and Sansa could have named him a king in his own right for the way he so inspiringly looked, but Lord Royce showed no royalty on his face, only remorse. 

"No truer words have been spoken. I did not fight beside your brother on the battlefield, and I'll regret that until my dying day. As a Royce, honour demanded of me to have done so, but I did not. That is my sin bear for the rest of my life. I knew your father, and I know your brother must have been as just and honest a ruler as his father. All I can do is admit that I was wrong for not riding out to meet your brother and ask forgiveness." 

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord." Sansa smiled grimly, and she was sincere about her reply. These lords knew that their inaction had caused for many of their kindred spirits a meaningless death. Who was she to rub salt on their wounds? She had no right. A vile part, a dark spirit chained by guilt and regret inside her, whispered that she too had played a part in Father's downfall, as much as she wished to deny it. 

"House Royce will stand beside House Stark. Our shared blood goes back for hundreds of years. It is time for the Vale to shed its unwillingness and aid their allies in their times of need!" Lord Royce drew his sword and knelt, placing it on the ground. "As Lord of Runestone and head of the Lords Declarant, I will stand beside Sansa Stark, the Princess of Winterfell! My shield is yours, my sword is yours! We will bring back the rightful heir to the Crown of Winter where she belongs!" 

And the clattering of a dozen more knights and lords coming to kneel before her rang within the shells of her ears. 

"Sansa Stark! Princess of Winterfell!" 

"Sansa Stark! Princess of Winterfell!" 

All around her, the chant was picked up. The Vale had proclaimed their support for her. Warmth bloomed inside her chest, stoking warmth inside her all the way to her toes and back again. Sansa felt like falling to her knees and weep where she stood for this small mercy. Myranda nudged her side and twined their hands together, nodding her support. 

It had been so long, but Sansa could the familiar sensation course back into her. A cold chunk of ice she did not know she carried inside her was thawing. 

For the first time in years, loneliness did not threaten to consume her whole anymore. 

Now, a budding sense of hope flowered inside her. Hope of returning home. Hope of never having to suffer through doubt, fearing for her life. 

Hope that finally, something good had come over her. 

* * *

**THE RELUCTANT KING**

Jon wandered over the castellations of the castle, Satin at his side, the snow beneath their feet scrunching like dried branches. This side of the battlements was aimed to the south, towards the Neck and the lands beyond the bogs. Towards the south. The kingsroad was no longer visible, a thick layer of snow rendering the road almost incapable of being tread upon. 

Jon removed his mole leather gloves, putting them to the side before he scooped up a handful of snow. His bare hands, burning with cold, rubbed the biting feel of their texture across his face, and Jon sighed in sinking relief at the sting they brought to his eyes. His breath hitched just as it came in contact with his pallid skin, probing him back awake. For a moment, Jon savoured the cold over his face, letting it cool and caress his flesh. The snow caused him to jerk awake after hours being holed up inside a stuffy solar. 

Nightmares had started to lord over his sleep more violently these passing days. The furs of his cot were all torn up, the nightstand next to him knocked over more than once as he desperately tried to pry off his sweat-soaked tunic in a panic. Ghost all but had to throw his full weight atop Jon once so he would spare himself a slash across the face as he clawed around him. This was getting out of hand. Perhaps it was a prudent idea to see the maester about his shattered mind. 

A fortnight had passed since he was coronated King in the North. Not a single night had he taken for his own. All of them were spent inside the solar, trying to rebuild the cracks in the North and making preparations for the impending assault of the Others. 

Jon had signed more letters than he could count, sending raven after raven to all the northern houses to tell them of the coming winter. The odd letter here and there demanded an oath of fealty from a house who had not yet come to Winterfell and declared their undying loyalty, but his largest announcement was for the lords to direct their stray smallfolk towards Winterfell. 

It was custom for the smallfolk to leave their crofts and windmills and sawmills for the warmth and safety of Winter Town. Already, swarms of commoners flocked to Winterfell, taking up residence in houses which had been empty all through summer and spring. The Starks had provided for them for centuries, and this time would be no different. While Winter Town looked like a city of ghosts during most of its years, when winter came knocking at its doors, the place changed into a barrel full of sardines. The smallfolk knew that it was time to pack and make way towards the seat of House Stark when the snows fell and the white winds blew. 

Yet, Jon faced plenty of dilemmas. Dragonglass, supplies, able-bodied men. His greatest concern was the lack of grain. Men he could hire from the east. Dragonglass kept him worried as well, but dragonglass was a matter of lesser import compared to affairs like grain and barley and livestock. 

Or his lack thereof. 

This spring had been bountiful, the ledgers informed him, plenty of stored grain and bushels of wheat, and cattle had been bred aptly by the farmers of the Rills and Barrowton, but it was not spared for the coming winter faithfully. According to Maesters Medrick and Rhodry, Robb's campaign demanded large supplies, something he took from the winter reserves, the amount left to his own discretion. Jon did not begrudge his late brother's decision. He could have never known to what extent this winter would be. Nor could he have thought that something far more dangerous than the Lannisters existed. 

Nevertheless, the shortcomings were jarring, worrying even. Satin and he had tried every single ration tactic, but all of them fell through in a blink. 

Jon could no longer deny it. 

He had a crisis on his hands already so soon in his reign. 

Soothing his temple, Jon allowed his eyes to stare off idly into the dark horizon. "Do you think I'm cut out for this, Satin?" 

Satin made a noise of surprise, looking at him. "Your Grace?" 

"Do you think I am capable of leading my people? Worthy of my brother's title?" 

Satin looked at him aghast, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he pondered. "I would never presume- " 

"Speak plainly, Satin." Jon interrupted curtly, brushing away the snow in his hair. His steward stood straighter at the sharp command. "No formalities, no titles. Look at me and tell me the truth and nothing but the truth." 

Still, a cloud of doubt hung over his former sworn brother, muddling his chance to answer. By nature, Satin was a shy and reticent creature, Jon had come to know. Castle Black had frightened Satin severely, and with good reason. A catamite had no place there. Men had eyed him everywhere he walked, bloodhounds seeking a nice piece of flesh to sink their canines into. Satin was pretty, and that had been his greatest boon south. Here, in the north, it was his greatest enemy. Jon did not wish to know what kind of tribulations Satin had to face during his relatively short time in the Night's Watch. 

Eventually, Satin found his voice again. "I think kingship is only suited for those who know it is a duty, and not a pleasure." 

That was not a clear answer for Jon. "And by that, you mean...?" 

"I believe that those who find themselves already entitled to a crown are not worthy of it. Kingship is like steel armour, not a silk brocade; a reminder that it's not a light burden." 

Jon agreed, nodding, but the knot at the pit of his stomach tightened further. Satin made a good point, for kingship was no pleasure indeed. It was a bloody honour, prestigious like nothing else, and cursed just as much. Robb had died a king. Stannis as well. Joffrey, Balon, Renly, they had been kings. They now laid dead on the ground. Robb had been brutalized by the hands of traitors and Stannis had taken tainted knives to the heart. The others had suffered gruesome fates of their own, one more treacherous than the previous. 

Who would ever wish to be a king if it meant turning into an obscenity at the end of it all? By morn, a king could be second to none, and come nightfall, he could be nothing but a sack of dead flesh. That terrified Jon more than anything; to one day be at the end of yet another betrayal. And for what? A crown he did not even want? 

Closing his eyelids for a moment, Jon breathed out tiresomely, the burn of fatigue searing his eyes, before he opened them again and looked to the purpling sky. Dark swathes of clouds started gathering at the far edge of the horizon, a large blanket of foreboding, their dolefulness projecting a shadow over his mood. Were the Gods trying to tell him something? Were they telling him that already, his reign would one full of hurdles and trials? 

"Your Grace? May I have a word?" 

Jon whirled around, hand already going to his side instinctively, searching for the rough furs of his direwolf, but he came up empty-handed. Ghost had grown restless of being locked up inside Winterfell and made himself scarce, disappearing like his namesake. Jon could feel the occasional tugs on his minds when the bond grew too intimate, but other than that, he had no clue where his direwolf had decided to amble off to. Mormont was around somewhere, but the damnable raven always had a mind of its own. He came and went as he pleased, lord of his own fate. Jon wished could have such clemency. The invisible crown of the North laid heavily upon his head. 

"Who are you and what is your business here?" Jon took stock of his short stature and the moss green cloak hugging his body. A spear made of white bark, weirwood bark he realized, hung loosely around his shoulder. The stranger had his hood up. Jon could only see his beard from where he stood. 

The small man grabbed the hem of his cowl and lowered it. He took a knee. "Your Grace, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch. I've come here with a most sensitive topic to discuss." 

"My lord, please rise." Jon urged him with a hand, much more mindful to sound respectful. They locked eyes. "You were a good friend of my father, were you not? I will not have one of his close friends kneel to me." 

"That we were, lad, that we were. It pained me when I heard what had happened to him. He did not deserve such a fate." He agreed with a slight smile. Jon could read the sadness in his eyes. Father and Lord Howland had been close friends, he had been told. Wherever Jon walked, the death of his father, even after all these years, still caused wounds to open up. 

"What can I do for you, my Lord Reed?" 

Lord Howland stepped closer as he rummaged through his cloak. The look on his face spoke of grave matters. "Your Grace, there is something you must know...something that will forever change your life..." A brief glance was spared for Satin. "...might we have some privacy, my boy?" 

Satin looked to Jon for guidance, and he offered him a curt nod, dismissing him. Bowing, Satin left them to tend to his matters as steward to the King in the North. 

"Now, my lord, what did you wish to speak about in private?" 

* * *

**THE PRINCESS REGENT**

"Am I to call you Your Grace now?" 

Smiling lightly, Sansa turned her palm and tangled her and Mya's fingers together. "You can call me your mule for all I care. As long as our friendship remains the same, Mya." 

The grin on Mya's face was telling. For a bastard, no such things as titles and decorum mattered much. Friendships ran deeper than that. Mya never liked to be around the silks of nobility, much less royalty, Sansa reckoned. 

She knew of the rumours that Mya was the seed of the late King Robert Baratheon. Tall and solid, with deep blue eyes and a cheery heart, Sansa could see the truth in it. 

Mya's hand left her grasp, turning and leaned with the small of her back against the stone railing as she threw her head up to look at the clouds. "So I suppose you're planning to leave for the north? As a Stark, Winterfell is yours to claim." 

A frown etched itself on Sansa's face, her gaze dropping, narrowing at the grounds below. The balcony of her new chambers, the lady's chambers, was wide and daunting, a high platform that allowed Sansa to lean over the stone railing and gaze upon the vast expanse of the Vale proper. 

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now." Sansa whispered. "It would seem like the natural thing to do, return and reclaim my home, but it doesn't feel right, for some reason." 

The wind was blowing softly in her face. While cold and biting, Sansa felt like she was being caressed by the soft touches the wind bestowed upon her face, a loving and frigid hand stroking her cheek. Mother and her stern but caring hand oddly came to mind then. 

Sansa fluttered her eyes shut, taking a moment to enjoy the quiet. A moon's turn had already passed since Harry's trial. He had been pardoned by herself, provided that he paid a hefty ransom for his freedom. She would never forget his grateful blue eyes filled with unshed tears as he kissed her hands and thanked her profusely for her kindness. The coin came from Lord Nestor's coffers himself, but that had been no surprise to Sansa. It was more of a statement. 

When Harry was released, Lady Waynwood agreed to a marriage between him and Myranda, fulfilling Lord Nestor's last ambition of finally tying himself in matrimony to the heir of the Vale and the Arryn name. The Lord of the Gates had bought the marriage he wanted for his daughter, at last. 

House Royce owed her quite a favour. It had been Sansa's influence that ultimately swayed Robert not to revoke the outcome of the trial. He had kicked and whined about it, but Robert's grievances fell on deaf ears by the end of it all. 

Ser Lyn, though, he did not go unscathed from the ordeal. His brother, Lord Lyonel Corbray, had to pay down a ransom worth that of a king. Lyonel did not have such wealth, not yet anyway, and so, he was forced to forfeit his ownership over the Valyrian steel sword Lady Forlorn. With great chagrin, the beautiful ornamented sword was passed down to Robert's possession, but until such a time came for him to wield it, Harry would carry the magnificent sword as its bearer. 

Sansa had assumed the position of Lady Regent for her cousin, assisted in her place by the Lords Declarant. The lords of the Vale had agreed to name her Robert's regent, for it was Sansa alone who knew the blessed art that was calming down the lordling's unholy tantrums. 

Nary a nobleman in the Vale wished to be on the receiving end of Robert's fits, but Sansa was not just any noble. Lord Robert's fits were oddly endearing to her, and while tiresome and embarrassing to witness, Sansa had grown patient in gentling his wrath and making him do as she told him. 

One day, Sansa would have to do the same with her children. 

Sansa stiffened, now realizing where her thoughts were straying towards. 

Sansa wrapped her arms around herself. _Do I even wish to marry again? I've always dreamt of being a mother...but that means binding myself to another. _ Fingers dug into her flesh as she tautened her grip on her arms, scared all of a sudden. _ No one will marry me for love. They would want to have me like some trophy, all of them. _ Her grip tightened further in determination. _ I refuse to be someone's vainglorious conquest. I will not be seen as a mere key anymore. If I ever marry again, it will be of my own free will. _

The sight before her was so beautiful. The Vale proper had a soft golden glow laced around its ridges as dawn approached. She had been up all night, her fingers aching with cramps from too much writing. Sansa, on the advice of the Lords Declarant, had requested for the Vale to retreat into itself. 

Until his lordship Robert Arryn recovered from his ailments or showed significant signs to be on the mend, the Vale would close its gates and wait for its lord to resume its rightful place as Lord Paramount and Warden. Robert was too sickly to assume any sort of rulership on his shoulders. Every day, Sansa prayed in the godswood and sept for Robert's health. Prayed for his steady recovery. Prayed that he would come to grow old and one day hold a son or daughter of his own. 

Until such time came, his regency council would make the most crucial decisions. She was nothing but a figurehead. Sansa did not mind; it was not her affair to act as if she knew what was best regarding Vale politics. The only thing she wished was peace and quiet. Lord Royce did suggest for an expedition to the North, to see if the prospect of installing her as rightful Lady of Winterfell was an issue to be discussed, but Sansa refused the suggestion. Winterfell was ancient and strong and enduring. It would not run away from her. 

First, she had a duty here, in the Vale, to her last living blood. 

Her eyes fell on the road ahead that lead to the Bloody Gate a hundred leagues to the west. A lone rider cantered away, a brown cloak around him to shield the cold winds away. 

Close-mouthed Ser Lothor Brune had made a decision. He wished to join a sellsword company somewhere east. The life of a hedgeknight had made him grow weary and the lack of permanence did not rest easy on his soul. He was a well-trained sword, at least, so making coin as a sellsword would not be a hard obstacle for him. 

A small part of Sansa feared that he might ride for King's Landing and tell his tale to the Queen, but that voice was quickly silenced. The Vale promised to keep her safe and returned to the North one day. Cersei had to contest with mountains and more than thousands of armoured knights before she could get to her. She was safe here. 

"Princess, we have need of your notice." Entering the balcony, Ser Jasper Redfort made himself known, his winged helmet at his side. 

Sansa and Mya turned away from the railing. "Whatever for, ser?" 

Ser Jasper hesitated, pinching his face in thought. "We are not quite sure ourselves, my princess. Just now, we received word from the gates. Three strangers came knocking at our doors and demanded entrance. I went and see what all the ruckus was about and found myself unsure what to do." 

It was Sansa's turn to frown now. "And these strangers, did they say who they were? What their intent is?" 

He nodded. "They claimed to be on a quest, one given to them by your late mother, Lady Catelyn." A hand flew to her mouth in shock, but before she could say anything, Jasper continued, this time adopting a graver tone. "Be advised, my princess, we have our suspicions of who they are. One of them, at least." 

"Then pray tell, who is it that we are dealing with?" They made for the castle. Jasper's frown was telling, for it was deep and strong with trepidation, heavily etched on his face like a herald of bad news. 

"One is a tall woman, ugliest wench I've ever had the displeasure of meeting, short straw-coloured hair falling down the sides of her face and freckles around her nose. Only saving grace she had were her pretty blue eyes. The...squire, I s'pose? I'm not sure what he is, but the boy clutching her skirts is skinny as a reed, not really what you would want in a squire. Not the most handsome either with that stye beneath his left eye. The last, though, he caused us all disquiet." 

"Ser? Who is it that you've halted at the gates?" Nervous energy rolled down her spine. Sansa was clutching the hem of her skirt tightly in apprehension. Mya flitted her hand to rest on her shoulder, silently offering her support. 

"I've been to King's Landing only four times in my life, but a man such him, I could never forget. And the sword that woman was carrying..." Jasper looked at her. "...I have no doubt. It is the Lannister Queen's brother, the Kingslayer. Ser Jaime Lannister is standing at our gates." 


	3. Chapter 3

_ **JON** _

Raindrops had begun to clatter against the glass of the windows, insistent little noises flushing away the silence inside the Great Keep. A great deluge outside started to descend upon Winterfell, washing away the snow and reflecting in them the dourness of the current state of affairs around the North. The rain attempted to drown out all other sounds, but within the walls of his mind, that little ball of noise bubbled still. The pitter-patter soothed Jon’s warring mind, where the only noises between his ears was a constant buzz that refused to dim in volume. 

Jon and Howland found themselves in the great hall, with the only light coming through the window behind the high table, pouring on them like a stairway to the gods. The candles were in need of replacement, but the castle servants had opted to avoid the great hall ever since Jon came barrelling inside like a storm of swords, angry beyond reason. 

Now, he was sitting upon the dais leading up to his fathe- his uncle's chair, staring vacantly towards the ground as he tried to make sense of the explanation Howland just gave, his rage long gone and now replaced with nothing but a resonating void. 

The scroll currently clenched in his fist felt like a death sentence. How could one piece of parchment break Jon all over again just as he was about to finally pick up the pieces and make sense of himself? It was unfair. Others take him, it was fucking unfair! 

The Lord of Greywater Watch was trotting around with his arms crossed, ever the living statue he was, with his clenched jaws and brooding frown gazing down upon him. 

Jon continued to stare with hollow eyes at the floor, counting the tiles. 

“I don't understand…” 

Howland nodded empathically, coming to rest a hand on Jon's shoulder. “I know, son. It’s…” 

“…a lot to take in. I can’t wrap my head around it.” 

Howland sighed, closing his eyes. “It’s no use twiddling your thumbs right now.” 

Jon clenched his fists and ground his teeth, outraged. “Twiddling my thumbs…?" Anger bubbled inside his veins as a shout started to build in his throat. "Is that what you think I’m doing right now, my lord? Twiddling my damn thumbs!? What am I supposed to do, Lord Howland!?” His voice lowered, crumbling with each syllable that was choked out of his mouth. “I-I just found out my entire life had been nothing but a lie…my greatest wish turned into my greatest nightmare…” 

Howland seemed to loosen his frown, only barely. “Forgive me, Jon, I didn't mean to sound insensitive. It’s why I brought you here, so you could collect your thoughts, but Jon, right now, you need to take action. This is no time for pondering.” 

His mind could not even come up with an answer. Jon could not bring himself to. His thoughts were shredded asunder, running a thousand leagues an hour. Jon was slowly feeling like he was going mad all over again, losing all sense around him. 

What felt like an eternity probably lasted a few seconds, and the world, albeit shakily, stopped rotating like the spokes of a grinding mill, and Jon felt the muscles inside his legs twitch again, coming back to life. He came to himself again, leaning against the table, supporting his weight with a hand. 

Howland looked towards the doors, then back at him, and then again towards the stairs. It looked like he was between a rock and a hard place. 

“I’m sorry, Jon, I did not mean to come here and confuse you more than you already are, but you had a right to know this.” 

If Jon was honest, Howland’s words did not even register properly. They sounded strange, muffled, beneath water like, and Jon’s eyes merely followed his uncle's friend struggling to stay in one place. 

A glass was gently offered to him filled with water, and Jon gratefully took it and gulped down the contents in one go. He tried to place it back on a nearby table, but failed, and the glass shattered into a million pieces. Startled at the sound, Jon glanced down at the shards, and he thought to himself why those glass shards looked so terrifyingly familiar. And then he understood why. His thoughts were shattered into a million pieces at the moment just like those glass shards. 

This is no time for pondering…? 

Jon gazed up. He felt raw and bare, stripped to his bones in front of the world. “No time for pondering, you say? When is the time for pondering then…?” 

Lord Howland glanced solemnly at the seat of Ned Stark. “Not any time soon. The North is in shambles and needs clear leadership. You’re the only one capable that can give that right now. As King, it is your duty.” 

A mirthless breath left Jon, his head shaking lightly, locks of brown hair grazing his sight. It turned into hysterical laughter, one he had no control of. Howland took him in warily. Surely, he thought that he had truly lost his mind. Jon could not help the queer whim. It just came to him, this urge to clench his stomach and laugh and laugh hysterically at the irony of it all. 

_ You are not a Stark. _

Lady Stark had been right, all along. 

Jon was not a Stark. 

How painful the truth was. 

Jon dropped his eyes again, glaring at the floor and clenching his fists so tightly, something warm started to seep through his fingers. He realized seconds later that he broke his own skin and started bleeding through the small wounds inflicted by his nails. 

_ Others take you, Howland Reed, you can go hang yourself alongside my fucking duty...you and all the rest of them... _

A tremble rattled him, then another, muscles contracting together like entwined snakes, his body like a leaf in a storm, tucked to one side, then another, twirling and twirling endlessly. Jon felt so wholly confounded, he was not even sure of the time or date today. Time seemed to mash together into one giant stream, coursing through existence and unheeding Jon's need for it to grind to a halt for a just a bare moment, if only for a few seconds, so he could have the mercy of collecting his wits about. 

His life had been one giant mendacity, a cesspool of lies, all because one man and one woman failed to realize the repercussions of their selfish acts and indulged their lusts. 

Jon thought with unadulterated bitterness that all his life, nothing ever truly felt like his own decision. His fate was a fiddle, passed along to so many other people, all of them singing their tune, and Jon was dancing to it like a slave with no will of its own. 

How utterly pathetic... 

He never chose to be a dragonseed, he never chose to be a bastard, he never chose to be Lord Commander, he never chose to be King. All of it was thrown at his feet, one shackle traded for the other, and he happily donned them, because the folly that was his northern honour, his damnable Stark honour compelled him to do so. 

And now, he was not even a Stark. 

Robb had legitimized him as a... 

As a... 

He could not even bring himself to say it. 

All this time, Jon carried the moniker of Ned Stark's bastard, the only blemish on his impeccable honour, the only imperfection in Lady Stark's perfect little family. What a sick and twisted jape this was. 

Jon was not even sure how he could address the lords without wavering; how was he supposed to stand before the entire nobility of the North and lead as the Stark they proclaimed him to be? Jon would be making them all mummers in this great stage of fools. 

His heart hammered inside his chest, painfully so, threatening to burst from his chest like the tip of a fire mountain. 

Jon felt so lost. 

What was he supposed to do…? 

Jon lowered his face into his hands and forced his mind to just stop _ thinking _for a second. His chest expanded with the large amount of air he gulped in to try and steady his growing panic, cold palms cooling the skin of his face. It helped him calm his mind, a cold shower of water cooling off overly tempered steel, trembling hands gradually ceasing their tremors and teeth no more chattering. 

Jon resigned himself to the truth of what he just heard and accepted it for what it was; an inevitable twist of fate. By now, he had peeled off and changed his skin so many times, he had become numb to the flaying. Identities, titles, names, purposes, none of it were his to perpetually claim, and that was fine. Such worries were for those who thought they had a life beyond the coming winter. Jon was not sure whether he had one. He was living on borrowed time. Better make the best of it then. 

So, he started thinking again. 

Thinking about how to solve this monster of a problem. 

Gods above give him strength. 

The truth of his birth would only come to undermine him. The bastard son of the honourable Ned Stark already pushed him into a precarious place, what would the lords do if they learned that he was not a Stark bastard, but a Targaryen one? The grandson of Mad Aerys himself, no less. No, this piece of knowledge could not ever become public. Jon had to solve this issue now. And then it hit him like a stroke of genius.

_ He looks like a Stark  alright , but a different one… perhaps…like Brandon? Or… Benjen ? _

"My Lord Reed, I must ask of you a favour." Jon started, coming to rise to his feet. 

Howland came closer and nodded. "Name it, and it shall be done." 

Longclaw lay across the high table, the garnets inside the wolf pommel bright and burning. Tracing a finger across the jaws, Jon pondered what he was about to do. The thought sprung upon him from the shadows, a sudden stroke of genius, but it was a very dangerous consideration as well. 

What he was about to do would solidify his hold on the North and consolidate his place as a Stark. At the same time, it meant divulging in vile duplicity and deceit, spinning lies and forging a fabrication so insulting to the dead, the gods old and new would surely scribble this slander down and ask him about it on his day of judgment. 

Just then, the doors into the great hall opened, grinding to a halt and revealing the imposing form of Ghost stalking towards him. His trusted direwolf, his only true friend in this world. 

The sigil of House Stark always protected him. 

It would be no different this time. 

Jon welcomed Ghost to his side, fingers curling into his shaggy pale fur as he addressed Lord Howland. "My lord, how many people know of this secret?" 

Howland took a moment to think, eying the floor in concentration. "I'm the only one that knows of this secret." 

"Good. Now, as for what I'm about to ask of you, my lord." Jon held the parchment in his hand in the air. "We will pretend that this never existed. At all. You will go back to Greywater Watch and forge a new declaration, stating I'm the bastard son of Ashara Dayne and Brandon Stark." 

It made a small bit of sense as Jon kept giving the notion thought. He was not deaf to the rumours that mayhaps, Ashara Dayne could have been his mother. At some point, he had learned from Lady Stark that she gave that idea some merit. He was born south, after all, in Dorne, and Fa- Eddard Stark had visited Starfall first to deliver Ser Arthur's bones to his family before coming back to the North. Brandon had also been a rumoured lover of hers, for his wild nature, his wolf blood, made him a creature nobody could hope to tame.

Him being the child of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne could pass for a lie plausible enough for the northern lords to accept.

"You would wish to deceive the whole of the North, Jon?" Howland said, visibly perturbed at the idea of lying to his fellow northerners. He came closer to Jon and grasped his shoulders. Ghost did not like the sudden movement and further coiled around him as a way of protecting, his silent snarl strong enough for Lord Reed to loosen his hold on him. 

"You said so yourself that the North needs clear leadership and that I'm the only one who can give that. This..." The union between Prince Rhaegar and his mother Lyanna was shaken in the air. "...will only serve to undermine my efforts. The North has no love for Targaryens, not after what happened to my grandfather and uncle." 

The merit of the idea slowly started to make sense for Lord Reed as he fully came to release him. He took a step back and sighed through the hand covering his mouth. "I made a promise to Ned that would do anything in my power to help you if the need ever arose, but lying to my own people...?" 

"If I'm not mistaken, you have done it before." 

"Yes, but that was for your sake." Howland took issue, still making protests. 

"And this is for my sake as well, Lord Reed." Jon insisted. 

Howland eventually succumbed to his words and gave a soft and merely discernible nod. "Very well then. I will do as you say, Your Grace." With a final goodbye, Howland retreated, making his preparations to ride for his holdfast. 

Pleased, Jon shifted his attention at the entrance and saw Satin standing there, his register in his clutches, curious about what was transpiring between. Jon gestured for him to come inside and announce the opening of the day, so that court could be held soon. 

The days of winter were burning longer and fiercer, Jon had taken note this morn as he gazed out of a window and witnessed the rise of the bright sun come later than he expected. The air turned sharp, the little icicles hanging from little eaves growing longer, the sharp blades of the winter winds cutting deeper into his marrows. 

Winter was on the rise, something that was always celebrated by the Starks. 

Jon could not find it in himself to feel elated. 

He was not a Stark. 

He had no right to celebrate it. 

Jon kept brooding at the far end of the hall, sitting in his seat again while Satin stood beside him, tying the laces of his leather jerkin, obnoxiously precise and good with his deft fingers in properly putting this stuffy piece of clothing in its place. Jon always found trouble doing that for himself. 

“My king, today, there are several occasions that must be seen to.” Satin brought out the agenda of today, and Jon rubbed the muscle of his temples already at the prospect of some of them. “From morn till noon, significant grievances need to be addressed personally by Your Grace. From afternoon till early eve, inspections of several pending edicts, and from midevening, the receival of noble entourages who’ve come to attend the upcoming council meeting. Most notably among them are the Lord Robett and the Glovers, Lord Wyman Manderly and some of his relatives and Lady Barbrey and her ward Lord Denys Dustin...” 

By the gods’, he was to treat that pompous arse Denys and his overbearing foster mother? Jon already felt his mood sour considerably. He really did not like to look like he just took a large chunk of a lemon, but Lady Barbrey had an excruciating wont to put Denys on a pedestal and praise him as if the very ground he walked over would sprout trees with golden apples hanging from their branches. Gods be good he would not need to entertain them long. 

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, Jon gesticulated to the guards to allow the denizens of Winterfell to enter. The great hall started to come to life, courtiers spilling and vying for his attention, swarming around him like hounds over a carcass, but Satin still demanded his ears to listen to him. When he was done, a couple of foreign ambassadors presented themselves to Jon and started prattling in the most annoying and thickest accent he had ever heard someone use when talking in the Common Tongue. 

“…which is why, Your Grace, preserving your alliance with Braavos would be most advantageous. Pentos and the other Free Cities have proven to be hesitant to cease their custom as nations of slavers. The Braavosi are a much better choice to trust.” A dignitary advised insistently. His voice reminded Jon of the dusty old study of Lord Commander Mormont with that dry baritone of his coughing every now and then, as if he was stricken with consumption. If Jon narrowed his eyes, surely he would spot the little puffs of stale dust clouds coming out of his mouth. 

“King Jon, before you make a hasty conclusion, give the Pentoshi a chance to show their dedication. It would be wise to remain prudent in the case of...” Another drawled sourly, young but tired, croaking like leather worn too few a time. He had seen little of the world, based on the overly optimistic, arrogant even, tone he used. This one had the nagging quality of Alliser Thorne, and looked just as crooked with that hunchback of his. 

Did he not realize it was always wise to be prudent? Did they not teach that the soul of wit rested with brevity? This so-called diplomat seemed to be a fascinating butcher of words, redundant in his way of speaking. Was he to entertain fools today? Jon absolutely detested this. The insistence of ceremony. This was not the way of the North. 

Every day, Jon was woken up at dawn by Satin, bathing a solid hour while the household servants went up and about in his bedchambers, then dressed in the finest cotton clothes lying down on his made bed, then groomed and preened with scissors and wet clothes only for it all to end atop the high seat with Satin standing next to him like a sentinel. 

And that was not the worst of it all. 

No, what made this whole circus so characteristically nettlesome were the countless courtiers and foreign dignitaries gawking at him during petitions, like he was some dressed up mummer in a comedy. Jon was to court these people, Lord Howland said; good for a newly established realm and all that. Hear their petitions, pleas, whines and discomforts as he lorded over them. Jon would have never thought that being king also meant being a mother to ducklings quacking at each other so constantly. 

“…Myr and Tyrosh have promised to aid the coalition against Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen, Your Grace. If we wish to put a stop to her ambitions, we must…” On and on they went. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon spotted a maidservant, Karla, a girl of the free folk, nervously enter, her brown hair and simple woollen gown sticking out amidst the sea of teal, emerald and scarlet worn by rich foreign nobles desperate to woo the King in the North in lending assistance to stop the rise of Daenerys' newly born empire of freedmen. 

Truth be told, Jon found it rather insulting that these magisters came knocking at his doors and asked him to join their coalition against the Targaryen conquerors, Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen, who proclaimed themselves in extravagant fashion as the new King and Queen of the Bay of Dragons. Eight out of the nine cities due east of Westeros practised the abominable custom of slavery. They now had to contest with Targaryen liberators backed by three dragons, the Golden Company, a Dothraki horde and a legion of Unsullied. 

Slavery was vehemently frowned upon in the North. The Essosi knew, that was certain, but it looked like their audacity, or desperation, one of the two, made them come all the way to Winterfell anyway. Jon would rather throw his fate behind the Targaryen than assist these magisters. 

He was not even notified of their arrival. If he was, Jon would have spared them the costly journey with a simple letter telling them that under no circumstances would he have ever considered supporting them against the Targaryens' liberation campaign. Jon's trade alliance with Braavos had just been concluded between him and Tycho Nestoris, and if he assisted the coalition, that meant going back on his word with Braavos. Jon was no oathbreaker. 

“…therefore, Your Grace, I think the best decision would b–” 

“My lords…” Jon cut off, raising a silencing finger, Satin coming to look up from his register. “...please, see yourselves out. I find this story impossible to follow. My council will discuss this matter further with you.” Jon said, to the surprise, and chagrin, of several faces present. The grumbling ensemble of perfumed magisters begrudgingly trudged out of Jon’s great hall, seemingly taking offence in being so whimsically dismissed. 

His steward was about to pull the pin himself, but Jon gently clasped his hand and lowered them with a frown. “I can do it myself, Satin, thank you.” 

Satin nodded jerkily. “Of course, Sire.” 

Jon knew as well that these formalities gnawed at Satin’s composure, so the moment he was surrounded with only personal attendants, Satin’s rigid posture thawed. 

Jon pitied Satin; it was not easy for a man such as himself to be accepted for who he was. Satin’s kindness was without fault, and pure even, but the North had very scrutinizing eyes, and a damning one as well. 

Satin was one of the few Jon had come to trust. Not all of them were so fortunate. Suspicion was rife between his heart; every shadow could hold a dagger now. Not Satin, though. He would never betray Jon. 

Whatever, or whoever, Satin’s nocturnal activities involved, it was not up to Jon to question. He had his trust. As long as Satin remained true to him, Jon would forgive anything and all. Satin was dutiful and smart, he knew how to serve. 

When the pin finally shifted back in place, Jon diverted his eyes back on the wildling girl and nodded welcomingly. 

“Step forth, Karla, and tell me why you're here.” Jon gesticulated for Karla to come closer, as Satin turned a new leaf of his ledger, quill already at attention. 

"King Crow, a fight broke out between one of your lords and a chieftain. They claim Arvid took a peasant girl for his own against her will." Her eyes darted nervously across the lord's chambers. "The lord demands retribution and ask for your judgment. They're false, King Crow, I know they are! Arvid never touches a woman without her want! She all but threw herself at him and-" 

A hand silenced her ramblings. Jon heaved a troubled sigh as he shook his head, dismissing the girl. "Very well, I will address this matter soon enough. You may leave." He looked at the ensemble of courtiers and spoke. "You're all dismissed. See to your affairs." 

Jon and Satin trundled down the dais as the people inside the great hall dispersed, his steward already busying himself with documents he carried with him from the ledgers. "Your assumption that metals were to be found in the northern mountains was correct, Your Grace. The mountain clans report that ores like copper and obsidian are to be found in the-" 

"Hold on." Jon stilled, steadying Satin with a hand on his shoulder. "Did you say obsidian?" 

He nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. Large quantities were discovered. Would you like to see the balance sheets yourself?" 

Jon gave a shake of his head, a hand wiping at his face. "No, not now. Send the logs to the Lord Treasurer, so he can register it on our accounts." 

A sprout of satisfaction grew inside him at the news. The discovery of dragonglass had solved for Jon a great issue. He had desperate need of them for the coming battle against the Others, and at the time of his tenure as Lord Commander, he found himself woefully lacking the precious dark glass. 

The Gods decided to throw him a large bone, to which Jon was grateful. While dragonglass served few purposes, its ability to kill a white walker made it invaluable in and of itself. 

The racket of the courtyard greeted them as they stepped out of the Great Keep. The looming towers, once tall, shadowy and proud in their vigil over the castle, now gaped with great naked holes in their bulbous heads, snow filling in the gap at a low, almost uncertain pace, as if winter itself hesitated. 

Much like himself, Jon thought. The coming winter tried desperately to heal the wounds of treason and war in its own way, natural and unheeded through the only way it knows; burying it in snow. 

The builders Jon had requested assured him that the bricks would be delivered in time to rebuild all that was destroyed by the Boltons. Scaffolds and cranes, looming avian skeletons perched on frost-covered walls they looked like, were a common sight nowadays around Winterfell, lifting weights too great for the arms of men to do so. 

The bricks were placed like pieces of an askew puzzle. Much was needed to be constructed and Jon was glad for his steward lessons; they helped in leaps concerning the reorganization and reconstruction of a castle the magnitude of Winterfell. 

Carts full of bricks and wood, clamouring and rattling as they were brought inside through the portcullis, were dragged and handed out by Northerners of grim and taut faces. Bricklayers were busy trying to mason derelict pieces of the walls who suffered most during the battles, the bricks placed one by one in precise order. 

Carpenters likewise hammered away on spikes and wooden planks, the clink and clapper all over and spread across the castle, the strum a cacophony of rash noises. Their voices sang as they worked, telling the tale of a beaten-down home being restored stone by stone. Winterfell was like a torn tapestry and the bricklayers and carpenters were the dressmakers knitting it back together. 

It had been some time now since Jon had retaken Winterfell. Two months of rebuilding and mending and repairing still had not fully healed his childhood home. The Boltons had ruled like savages over the North. Ramsay Bolton haunted these halls like an evil wraith. 

His touch still lingered somewhere, whether it be a broken crenellation or burnt down chamber inside the castle. The horrors were still freshly imprinted on the eyelids of the household. The wounds of Winterfell ran deep. Most of them did not scratch the surface, but they bled all the same. Fallen bricks, destroyed towers and walls and broken wood could be replaced. 

Lives could not. 

“Milord? Where to put these stocks?” Jon smothered his wince and kept a mask of indifference over his feature to veil his unease. The urge to say “I’m no lord.” halted on the cliff of his tongue just barely. Old habits die hard, and this nasty habit was instilled in him ages ago, nurtured by the hand of a stone-hearted lady he had known when he was a boy. 

Once upon a time, it was all he ever wished for; to be a trueborn son of Winterfell and its lord, when bitter daydreams pervaded his soul as Lady Stark ground into his ears the despised status of a baseborn child with a hiss through her clenched teeth, reminding over and over again that he was not a Stark. 

Now, months after and seeing the cost of it all, Jon would gladly have cut off his arm to have another Stark borne that title. For Jon, now that he was Lord of Winterfell, acting or actual, it made bile rise to his throat. It made him feel like… 

A usurper… 

“Over there with the other carts. Place them carefully inside, the grains and wheat need to be preserved for the coming winter.” Jon said. Another manservant came just as the first one disappeared. 

“Woodcutters have returned from the Wolfswood, milord. The weather allowed for longer hours, so we have extra gains of firewood today.” 

Jon nodded. “Dole them out amongst the smallfolk of Winter Town. Let the people enjoy a fire. Keep a good portion reserved, the hearths inside the castle are also in need of large supplies. Winterfell will be full of people soon enough.” 

The clatter of a commotion drew Jon's regard. At the courtyard, a throng of people had gathered, shouting like gamblers over a dogfight. Jon easily spotted the mismatched furs of the free folk and some banners of the mountain clans. Lord Liddle and his sons were amongst them. 

"What is all this ruckus?" Shouting, Jon demanded the onlookers to disperse for him. 

As the crowd parted, Jon could now see the bare-chested forms of Duncan Liddle and Toregg of Ruddy Hall, Tormund's boy, wrestling it out in the snow like two hairy bears over a big fat fish. 

"Nothing His Grace should be worried about." Torren Liddle assured, grinning. "My boy got challenged to a friendly fistfight by the wildling. Wanted to see how we 'kneelers' fight with no axe or sword. Hah! He's showin' the bugger who's the stronger one, all right! Get 'em, boy!" 

Toregg was struggling in Duncan's hold, head clasped in a tight lock as they writhed in the snow, their muscles stretching and bulging underneath the strain of their efforts. Multiple times, Toregg tried to find purchase in Duncan's hair, no doubt wanting to end this grapple by tearing at his hair, but the mountain clansman was nimble as well. He dodged his every effort and merely added pressure to his hold. 

"Give up, wildling, before your ugly head pops like a grape! No shame in admitting defeat!" Duncan bleated with a grin. 

"Fuck you, kneeler! I'd rather smear my face in pig shit than surrender!" Toregg hollered back. To Jon's utter amazement, Tormund's son pushed himself off the ground with much force, Duncan still holding on to him. Torren's boy was no lightweight, yet Toregg made it seem as if he was. Duncan loudly made his protests known by swearing a whole litany of curses, desperately trying to make the wildling yield. 

Toregg hauled the Big Liddle over his shoulders and slammed Duncan onto the ground, throwing the full weight of his body behind the move, knocking the wind out of Lord Liddle's son. The crowd went mad. 

It took Jon a moment to realize what the reason for this wrestling match was, but as soon as Jon laid his eyes upon the wildling princess Val, who stood at the other side watching the fight with keen pale-grey eyes, dressed ethereally in furs as pure as freshly fallen snow, it all fell in place. 

Toregg and Duncan were in the middle of a fight to impress the blonde-haired woman. This was all an elaborate mating ritual, one trying to outdo the other so the winner could scamper off with the female he won over. 

Jon understood their quarrel. A man had to spare one look at Val and the need to win her favour would start to fill their minds like a spell. She was a beautiful woman, wide-hipped and full-breasted. 

Many of the men around, Northmen and wilding, had expressed their desire to have her warm their furs. Jon had to admit, he was one who certainly at least entertained the idea as well. How not? Val was beautiful and brave, a warrior princess, strong and graceful as a snow leopard. 

Any man with a pair of eyes would feel the flames of desire stoke within them at the sight of her. Val had ways with even the rowdiest of children, knowing how to twist and pull them to her will, had wits about her that could rival a fox and courage to stare down men twice the weight of her own stones. The blonde had every right to be as desirous as she was. It could not be, however, at least not for him. 

Jon was King in the North now. 

A wildling could never be its Queen. 

Perhaps in another life. 

Perhaps Val could have been his under different circumstances. 

“To think that one day I am to find myself aligned with wildlings of all folks. There is no greater irony to face.” Mors mumbled as he stepped next to Jon in the courtyard. “Rapers and raiders the lot of them are. And now I find them frolicking with mine own fellow northerners like a pair of bear cubs.” 

House Umber held particular distaste for the free folk. Last Hearth was the bastion devoted to keeping at bay the free folk. Generations of fighting made the rift between them a festering wound, and now Jon had allowed them through the Wall into the lands of his ancestors. He could only guess how the Umbers were feeling. As though he had poured salt on their wound. 

“My Lord Umber, the free folk helped in the retaking of Winterfell. Their blood has been spilt just as much as those of the Umbers, Glovers, Mormonts and all the other loyal houses of the North that fought in this battle.” 

“They are welcome to spill more of their blood.” Mors groused out. 

Jon disagreed with a deep crease of his brows. "Every drop of living blood is a boon these days." 

Another grumble under his breath was his answer. Jon could feel his ire stoking. 

"Say that again, my lord?" 

Mors Umber humoured him with a sneer, hulking body tower over him, but no bone in Jon's body rattled with fright. He had seen greater horrors than an Umber. 

“You’re kind, Lord Stark. It'll get you killed one day." Jon had to lock his jaws not to scoff, a bitter taste spreading on the curve of his tongue. Been there, done that. "Make no mistake, after all this, them savages will be right up yer arse and start tearing the North apart from the inside out. The wildlings and my kin have been at each other's throats for thousands of years." Mors spat onto the ground as a group of wildlings walked by. "I'd sooner throw meself into the freezing water of Long Lake than get in bed with these barbarians. I cannot. And I will not.” 

"Then by all means, do so, my lord." Jon answered, not kindly. It was not taken kindly. 

The castellan of the Last Hearth leaned in intimidatingly, rage simmering in his eyes. "What did you say, boy?" 

"You heard me clearly, Crowfood. If your pride cannot accept the wildlings and what they did for the North, then do as you please and jump into Long Lake and freeze to death. I have no need for stubborn mules kicking people around in the guts." 

"You insolent little shit...who do you think you're talking to like that?" Mors glared. "I've seen more winters than your father and uncles combined. Even now, I can snap that neck of yours like a twig." 

Emboldened, Jon met his rage directly. "I have no doubt you can. What of it? Kill me here and now, and you'll doom yourself to a gruesome death." Ghost pressed himself against Jon's side, baring his fangs in a silent snarl towards the large man, who backed away in a flash, fear taking over the rage in his eyes. 

Jon's hand danced through his furs and adopted a less confrontational tone. "The free folk are here, because I willed it so. I found my friends on the battlefield. You fought side by side with Tormund Giantsbane and Sigorn of Thenn. They even axed a Bolton soldier who almost got to gore you with his spear. Are they not at least worthy of your trust, if not your love?" 

Mors' face coloured slightly as he stepped back, straightening before marching off. He realized his mistake by the hand of a boy no less. It must have bruised his pride to hear the scolding he was awarded from Jon. At least it diffused the situation. Unruly and pig-headed northerners were a dangerous lot, both to themselves and others. Mors Umber would have picked a fight with one of the more fervid free folks sooner or later. 

Jon could not afford disunity within the ranks of his men. 

Not like the last time. 

"The Umber savage looked ready to eat your liver for supper, Lord Crow." Val crooned next to him lightly. A little bundle was nestled in her arms, squirming and mewling. A wildling babe, a boy, one of her tribeswomen had given birth to. The birth of her child had been the mother's death, Jon was told by Satin. Val had taken it upon herself to look after the boy. She and the rest of her clan, a tight pack of mammoths raising the children of their fallen sisters. 

The ground held a sudden appeal to Jon. "In time, he will learn to settle with the situation. He has to. Old grudges won't do us good. They must be laid to rest. We must band together if we're to face the Long Night." 

"Aye, we must," Val agreed, but her face turned curious. "but what of you, Lord Crow? Or is it King Crow now?" Val's smile was spright for a little moment before thinning, serious again, grey-blue eyes telling him a thousand concerns. "Have you come to settle with yours? Tormund often japed how you came to kneel before Mance the first time you met him. Now you're a king yourself. At least to these kneelers, that is." 

"As well as I can. You know my thoughts of wearing a crown I did not ask for, but accepted anyway for the sake of the North." Jon answered after a moment of telling silence. Val knew of his discomforts, yet voiced them not. "Ofttimes, I feel more like an owner of quibbling hounds than a king. Both free folk and northerner do nothing else but piss at each other over the slightest of slights." 

Val gave a slow nod in agreement, rocking the babe as he started to wail a little louder. Something tightened in Jon's chest at the sight. 

He came up to gaze down at the child. "Karla is not too far away. I just saw her a little while ago. Do you know of her?" 

Val scoffed. "She's one of mine own. Of course, I know her." 

"Find her and give the babe to her for nursing. I need you and a few other chieftains for a quest." 

"A quest, eh?" Her teeth gleamed as she grinned. "Your Grace, this better be something worth my while. I'm not one you can command like one of your gushing ladies." 

"Your tongue is as sharp as my sword, Val, your wit sharper still, but that is not the most important reason why I am about to send you on this quest." Jon turned to look to the gates of Winterfell, towards the newly arrived view of Lord Wyman Manderly and his son Wylis. 

The Lord of White Harbour, a man as fat as a seal, stepped down his gelding with surprising grace for a man with his girth. Jon and Lord Wyman locked eyes. He gave a curt nod. Jon gave one back. 

"By Lord Wyman's words, up in the north, towards the Bay of Seals, lies the fabled isle of Skagos. There is a boy there. A boy of significant value, surrounded by people closer to the wildlings than the northerners. Rumour has it that they follow traditions closer to those of the wildlings than us 'civilized' lords and ladies." Jon's eyes flitted to Val. "As the smartest of your people, and one of the free folk, I want you and a group of your most trusted companions to travel to Skagos. Finding me this boy is your quest. You're one of the few who is both capable of the task and owner of my trust to see it fulfilled." 

"Owner of your trust? An honour if I ever had one." Whether out of mockery or not, Val gave a little bow. It was a source of vexation for Jon to see her jesting about this all. "So tell me, who is this boy? What significance does he hold to you?" 

A good question. Jon wanted to say 'my brother', but that was not right. In light of what he had learned earlier, Jon had no brothers anymore. Nor sisters. Nor parents for that matter. He was as lonely as a weirwood tree amidst the sweltering heat of the south. 

He did have kin, though. 

Shortly after Jon was proclaimed King in the North, Lord Wyman Manderly had caught him alone on the parapets of Winterfell. The conversation they had that day was nothing but short and blunt. Lord Manderly had presented him an ultimatum. 

_ I shall be plain, Your Grace, I do not fully trust you yet. House Manderly has sworn itself to House Stark for centuries, and it is because of that oath that I will lay down my sword before your feet and recognize you as my liege lord, but know this. A trueborn son of Ned Stark still lives and breathes. Before anything else, he needs to be found and brought back to Winterfell. And when he does, I expect you to do the right thing and abdicate in favour of your brother. It is what your brother King Robb would have wanted. I have come to tell you this because I feel like I should grant you a chance to prove yourself. Whatever you decide, your choices will make your future. So, choose wisely, Jon Stark. _

At the time, Jon did not put much stock in the knowledge Lord Manderly had bestowed him. Words were wind, and these words, while holding weight, could easily fracture whatever fragile peace Jon had forged in the wake of the Bolton's fall from grace. 

The lords could declare him illegitimate and a usurper, a pretender who always knew that a trueborn Stark still lived, yet took Winterfell for his own. 

Jon already knew what would follow then. 

It was why Jon was so grateful to Lord Wyman's honesty. While his blood was that of a former Reach southron, The North was strong in House Manderly. He was told straight as it was. 

Jon could respect that.

Jon even found comfort in that.

"The boy who you're about to go on a search for is the heir to this kingdom. The youngest of all the Starks. King Robb's and..." Jon swallowed the hesitancy down, the lump gliding down his throat painstakingly. "...my youngest brother. The boy's name is Rickon Stark, Prince of Winterfell and my heir." 


	4. Chapter 4

_ **SANSA** _

"How are you getting along, Ser Jaime?" 

Time had not been kind on the Kingslayer, Sansa noted as she entered his chambers, guardedly observing the Lannister knight with her blue eyes. He had grown weary and tired, face streaked with dulled iron amidst the once shining gold, ringlets of fair hair which flowed freely once now ran dull as straws of hay. Jaime's eyes had sunken in and no more winked like twinkling emerald gems, his face gaunt, pale and shaggy-bearded. Gone was the knight of the Kingsguard who inspired both fear and awe. He looked a fright He looked aged. He looked defeated and lost. 

The cocksure brother of Queen Cersei was now just a man, flesh and bone and blood, no more the aspect of the Warrior in the flesh, no more an icon of idolatry. Sansa remembered how Bran quipped that he had been sorely disappointed when King Robert rode into Winterfell atop his destrier, red-faced and puffy, only to regain that excited gleam in his face as the golden and immaculate brother of the golden and immaculate queen followed suit soon after. The perfect knight with wavy golden hair. 

Her little brother once said that Jon considered Jaime every inch a king as Cersei was a queen, inspiring and enchanting, something straight from a fairy tale. He was not wrong. It was no surprise either, for twins shared their perfection, born with matching grace and beauty, one clutching the heel of the other as they came screaming into the world. 

Yet as Sansa looked upon the haggard form of Ser Jaime Lannister, brother to the woman who had tormented her for so long, nothing of that almost ethereal beauty could be seen in the man sitting on the windowsill. He kept gazing out of the window like a man with his spirit broken, his purpose in life clear no more. Sansa could not really put her finger on the reason for his melancholy. 

A sort of smugness gleamed in the gates of his soul still, a Lannister thing she supposed; a Lannister with no pride would be aberrant, delicate as it was. The man once known as the Lion of Lannister held a fragility about himself that reminded Sansa of his younger brother Tyrion, and even his queenly sister. All of them had their way to use arrogance as a feeble barrier against the world; if bruised, they would bleed like vicious flesh wounds. 

Jaime stirred from his place, a smile on his handsome face that would have dazzled Sansa when she was a young and impressionable girl. She was the latter still, but not the former. 

"I'm certainly being treated better than during my captivity under your brother." Jaime japed crudely, drinking from the cup in his hand. "A featherbed and wine are much more preferable to muck and dirty water. You should've taught your brother some more courtesy. Maybe then I would have had my hand still." 

If he intended to jest with her, then the jape was of terrible bad taste. Sansa made that known with a disapproving frown. 

Jaime had taken stock of her displeasure and made little attempt to look contrite. He made none at all, actually. Anger prickled beneath her skin, hands clenching into the fabric of her layered skirt as she bore holes into Jaime's face. 

This was the man who had crippled her father. 

This was the man who had a hand in orchestrating the Red Wedding. 

Her hands balled into even tighter fists. 

Calm down. Anger won't help you here. Sansa's nostrils flared as she breathed in and out, steadying herself and reining in the outrage at Ser Jaime's callous tone. The urge to pick up a cane and hit the Lannister knight bloody almost overwhelmed her, but Sansa was not a creature of violence. She resisted the foul urge. 

Sansa entered his chambers further, Ser Nestor one step behind her. The Templeton knight had taken upon himself to serve as her sworn shield, a position he had taken for his own rather than have it granted to him. Sansa had little heart to deny him. 

He was friendly and outgoing, easy and generous with his smiles, though not a particularly comely boy, skin boiling with red pimples since Sansa had come to the Vale. He was of an age similar to what Robb would have been had he not died. Sansa's heart gave an aching squeeze at the memory of Robb's boyish smiles. She would never be favoured with one of them again. 

The Lannister in front of her gazing out of the window earned her attention again as she remembered her dearly departed brother. 

Nestor's presence was calming, if not forced by his own obstinance. Telling him to stop his unsolicited protection would be discourteous on her part. He was only being gallant. It gave her the courage to pin Ser Jaime with questions. 

Two days ago, they had come onto the Gates of the Moon, carried on the hooves of half-dead horses until the poor beasts collapsed on the ground. The only items of note on their being were an empty waterskin, a baggy purse that held only a few silver stags and a handful of copper stars and their muddy armour. 

The three of them looked like they had toiled and weathered a heavy storm. Wet and dirt-ridden, with the stench of the land following their wake. Only one she immediately recognized and his face sent jolts of pure fear through her joints. Podrick Payne, her former husband's squire. Alongside him rode Ser Jaime Lannister a blonde woman Sansa knew not. 

The woman had the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen, her form bedecked in thick plates and chainmail like a knight. She was tall and looked as strong as a soldier pine. Sansa's breath hitched as she let her eyes take her in. The knightly woman looked like she could pass for Symeon Stareyes' sister. She was not particularly beautiful. She was not beautiful at all, but that did not face Sansa. It felt oddly inspiring to see a woman wield a sword and clad in armour, capable of defending herself from the cruelties of others. 

Arya aspired to be as such as well. 

Back then, Sansa had sneered over her younger sister's insistence to know how to wield a blade. 

Her sister was ahead of her time, she now realized with doleful melancholy. 

As they were dragged to the stables, Sansa had gone white as a ghost at their appearance. Myranda ordered Ser Jaime to be taken into custody as soon as his greaves touched the earth, concerned at Sansa's sudden lapse of silence. 

After a moment of collecting her thoughts, Sansa ambled straight towards Ser Jaime's chambers with the intent of confronting him. She did not have the time nor the mind to speak with the other two, but she reckoned that they could be addressed later. 

Right now, she needed answers from the Kingslayer. 

"Why are you here, Ser Jaime?" Sansa reiterated, hands coming to wring together in unease. He remained stubbornly silent, opting to look at the stone floor instead of her. Counting the tiles of the ground seemed to be preferable to answer her. Sansa could feel herself grow cross at the slight, but she swallowed her outrage and pressed on. "Is it on the order of your sister? Did she task you with finding me and bringing her son's murderess to justice? Is that why you're here?" 

"Yes." 

Bile threatened to rise through her throat at the flippant scoff of an answer. Ser Jaime had a little smile on his face, amused as fear spread across her face. Her hands trembled, clutching the fabric of her dress again. 

Her fear had no chance to settle in her bones. Sansa made sure of that by squeezing it down harshly, grinding her heel violently upon it, imagining it to be Ser Jaime's face beneath her slipper. If Ser Jaime meant for her to be seized by the guards, then he was a fool. She would not show weakness in front of a Lannister. Sansa was surrounded by allies. She was safe. 

"That's what you thought I'd say, didn't you?" 

The fear dimmed, but it still churned inside her. Confusion had started to claim room inside her, filling the void fear left behind. 

Ser Jaime abruptly left the windowsill in favour of treading about. "I'm sure the wench informed you about the reason of our arrival here." Sansa did not know who he was talking about, and it showed, for Ser Jaime raised his eyebrows at her, a little surprised. "You haven't spoken with Brienne? I thought by now she would've dipped her knee to you and offered you her sword and shield, delusional woman that she is." 

So her name was Brienne. It rolled off the slope of her tongue like a rock, coarse and hard. Not a single lady Sansa knew was called Brienne. She never heard a song with a lady in it called Brienne. It did not even sound like what a delicate lady would carry as a name. Brienne sounded strong and fierce, a warrior's name, like Visenya or Argella. 

"No, she has not, and why would she? I know her not." 

"Your lady mother did." Ser Jaime revealed. Ser Jaime looked like he was recalling a memory that haunted him even to this day. "She made a vow to Catelyn Stark. To exchange my life for yours and your sister's. Of course, it did not happen as such, or else we wouldn't have been here, but Brienne, fool that she is, decided to continue honouring her vow to a dead woman. I've come here at Brienne's behest, Lady Stark." 

Sansa smothered the gaping hole inside her chest with anger at the mention of her mother. This was no time for grieving. 

It did not make much sense to Sansa, and she bore down on Ser Jaime with a severe frown. "Why would my mother ask of you, a Lannister of all people, to see me back home? You must be lying." 

"Because, Lady Stark, as strange and inconceivable it may sound to you, I do have a code of honour. I am an anointed knight, my oath sworn in the light of the Seven and all that sacred nonsense. I'm long passed being an oathbreaker. I've sworn one too many, but this one, I intend to honour." 

It was hard to take the man seriously. Ser Jaime grinned at her openly, mockingly, the set of his jaws loose and easy, eyes sharp as a cat's and face slack of any trouble. Sansa knew better. She had seen this type of demeanour before. Jaime and Cersei were not so very different, unsurprisingly. They denied truths the same way even. 

The Battle of the Blackwater and Maegor's Holdfast came to her memory. The Queen sat upon her couch dripping with Lannister red silks, tasting wine from a golden chalice and acting as if nothing went on, as cool as a shard of solid ice amidst panicking flames. Yet beneath that icy mask, Sansa knew how terrified she was. Her eye twitched, fingers shaking, gooseflesh over her arms. Sansa's scrutiny of Cersei was silent and subtle, but it was there. 

Every blast and shout caused her to flinch ever so slightly, every harsh sound of steel against steel reminding her that outside the gates, men were eager to cut a bloody path through the city and feast upon the spoils of war. 

Cersei's eyes told her everything. 

Just as Jaime's did now. 

He was mocking and smiling, a shield to hide his true feelings behind. 

To keep the world from seeing how utterly lost he was. 

Sansa resolved to provoke him further. 

"I don't believe you." She whispered, eyes defiant. "I don't and won't ever believe the man who crippled my father and robbed him of his dignity by refusing to meet him on even terms. I refuse to believe the man who played a part in my family's demise. You are no knight, Ser Jaime. You're honourless and unscrupulous. I will never believe in a Lannister ever again." 

"As is your right, Lady Stark." He said back, oddly calm, an edge to his words. The humour had all but drained from him. Ser Jaime eyed her with contempt, at last an emotion other than false amusement and arrogance as frail as cobwebs in his deep voice. "I'm not particularly fond of you Starks either. I don't care if you think me based and without honour. You can stand amongst the thousand other sneering folks looking at me with dark eyes. I care not. It's not the first time the wolf judges the lion. Honourable Ned Stark did, who is his silly little daughter to be any different?" 

Her hands ached, hot and twitching. Sansa wanted to scream at Jaime, rage at him, claw at his face and rip off his mouth for his insolence. How dare he spoke so scornfully about her father? How utterly dare he! He had no right! No right to act so arrogant and contemptuous! 

Tears prickled at the end of her eyes, but Sansa refused to give a Lannister the satisfaction of seeing her cry. 

"The only thing I want is to fulfil my oath. To do right by Brienne." Ser Jaime stepped closer, not menacingly, but Sansa took a step back regardless, hating herself for the momentary show of weakness. "If you want to hear me beg for your forgiveness, you'll be in for a disappointment." 

"That's enough, Lannister." Nestor spoke up, hand on his sword, though he did not seem especially confident to face the Lannister knight, the words of warning come out with a tremor. More guards appeared at his side, drawing their swords slowly. "S-step out of line, and you'll lose the other hand." 

Jaime Lannister regarded him with a flicker of his eyes, but soon judged him unworthy of his alarm, like he was nothing but a meagre consideration. "Sheathe your sword, boy. You'll only make a fool out of yourself." 

"We have you surrounded four to one." 

Jaime's smile was crooked. "I like those chances." 

Sansa did not remain for much longer, the swirl of boiling emotions bubbling like acid inside her veins. Forgetting decorum, she broke away and left the Lannister knight to his own devices without a word of goodbye, storming through the halls of the Gates in a flutter of skirts. 

"My princess, please slow down! Her ladyship Myranda asked for your-" 

"Not now, good ser." Sansa cut him off sharply. She wanted to be away from it all. Away from Ser Jaime, from Sweetrobin, from Myranda, from the Gates, the Vale, all of it. She wanted to be alone. 

Soon, she came to the godswood, the trees white with snow, a peaceful cold settled as if Sansa had entered a whole new world. Like she had returned to Winterfell. 

Dropping to her knees, Sansa clasped her hands together in front of the heart tree and did something she had not done in a long while. 

Pray. 

Sansa prayed and prayed, tears running down her cheeks freely, begging the old gods for some peace of mind, beseeching them to silence the cacophony of screams inside her head. Her mind was a battlefield. 

Ser Jaime's arrival had picked open old wounds. It only took the appearance of one ghost of her past for the thread to be pulled, unravelling her till she was bare again in front of her fears and pains. It was as if she had reverted into the scared little girl in King's Landing, surrounded by lions who viewed her with nothing else but cold interest to further their ambition, a tool, an object to be used. 

Her heart ached. She was yet again reminded of the devastating loneliness that came along with being a Stark. For so long, she thought she had been forsaken. That nobody would come for her in that dark and desolate place. That Robb and Mother had considered her lost already and no more worthy of saving. 

And now, she had learned differently. Her mother had thought of her. Did try to save her from the jaws of her tormentors. Went as far as resorting to the aid of a Lannister of all people. It should have made her feel fortunate, grateful at the very least. Instead, Sansa felt like crying all over again. 

Why did this realization hurt her so much more? Why did the pain of knowing that her mother tried to save her hurt more than the resignation? 

Or had it perhaps been there all along? 

Perhaps Sansa had just grown numb to it all, buried beneath denial and acceptance, and the revelation of her mother's attempts, her mother's love and desperation for her, had only served to dig up that pain again and strip it raw of any skin, letting it throb and pulse, as if her heart had been cut out and placed on an altar, her tragedy for all the world to see. 

Sansa wished the Kingslayer had never come here. Wished he had fallen from his horse and broke his neck. Him and the other two. If they had died or stayed away, Sansa could have kept living in ignorance, for ignorance was much easier to deny and swallow. 

Could have kept pretending that she was unloved and unwanted. Misery was safe. Misery was consistent. Misery meant there was no such thing as hope to look forward to. To have that hope and then have it snatched away. 

It would have been better if she remained ignorant. 

_ No. _ _ ..that _ _ is unfair of me. To wish for ignorance would be an insult. If I keep burying my head in the sand, I would do as if they never loved me. _ Sansa clutched the spot where her heart was beating. _ This pain...means I loved them. Means they loved me. _ Sansa closed her eyes, chest rising and falling with her deep breaths. She allowed the pain to settle. _ I will carry it with pride, this pain. I will not let it drag me down. Let it be my strength. _

"Gods give me the strength to endure." Sansa whispered, squeezing her hands and eyes tightly, conveying desperately her desire for peace. It tugged on her bright hair, caressed her wind burnt cheeks and froze her tears, but it never found home inside of her, leaving lingering touches like a ghost. 

Like so many other ghosts following her wake. 

The bark of the heart tree was pristine, white as milk, made even purer by the kiss of falling snowflakes. The peace around the godswood of the Gates comforted Sansa, the silence and cold her only friends in this almost ethereal world. 

Sansa prayed to the olds gods. She prayed for strength, for patience, for hope. 

But most of all, she prayed for salvation. 

Salvation from this desolate solitude. 

Her answer was only the chiming of the wind. 

"Your Grace? May I have a word?" 

Sansa stood on shaky legs, the skirt of her grey dress soggy from the melted snow. Turning, she came face to face with the lady knight named Brienne of Tarth. She was imposing, that was for sure, tall and straight as a lance, broad as a boulder, but her face echoed none of her physical strength. 

Piercing blues opted to glance down at the white ground shyly, not meeting her eyes. The golden lion head of her sword's pommel threw back the light of the sun. She was instantly reminded of Ser Jaime Lannister. 

Podrick lingered at the entrance of the godswood. Brienne had tasked him with keeping an eye out, it seemed. 

Sansa dipped into a curtsey at the knight, a polite but distant gesture for her to come closer. "What can I do for you, uhm, ser? My lady?" 

"Just Brienne is fine, princess." Brienne suggested with a small smile that looked rather forced. "I've never been a true lady, and ser is only meant for knights. I'm not knighted either." Brienne's gaze returned to the ground, dragging her foot across the snowed ground 

"Where is Ser Jaime?" Brienne looked around. "I don't see him here. Is he well enough?" 

Her concerns for the Lannister did not endear Brienne to her. "He's locked up in one of the chambers. Worry not, he's being given the treatment befit his station." 

"Please, forgive Ser Jaime for his crassitude." Sansa knew her face betrayed her surprise. Brienne gave a small smile. "Through the years, he's seen much and changed even more. Despite his crude manners, he means well enough." 

"I've seen much and endured more just the same." Sansa said. Brienne pursed her lips into a thin line at the reminder. "It remains to be seen whether he has genuine intentions to help me or not." 

Sansa considered her, fixed her eyes on the woman intently as she took stock of her bulky form standing there like a conifer amongst willows. She was surprisingly soft and awkward, not knowing whether she belonged here or not. 

_Just like me._

"What can I do you for you, Brienne?" Sansa said. 

At last, Brienne's eyes met her own blue ones, steel and fire looking back at her. "The question is not what you can do for me, princess. The question is what can I do for you." Brienne unsheathed her beautiful sword, and with a gasp, Sansa realized what kind of steel it was forged. It had grey-black and red ripples through the steel, with the red almost as dark as the grey. Only one kind of steel had a distinctive rippled pattern. Swords made of Valyrian steel. 

Brienne placed her sword on the ground and bowed, like a knight would. "This is Oathkeeper, once the sword of Ser Jaime Lannister, a shard from your own father's Valyrian steel sword Ice. I was charged by both your mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, and Ser Jaime with finding and swearing my loyalty to you as I did to your mother. I vowed to protect the daughters of Catelyn Stark with the life she saved." Brienne raised her chin to look at Sansa determinedly, raising the sword, offering it to her. "On my honour as a daughter of House Tarth, as the daughter of the Evenstar, please, accept my vow of loyalty and let me serve you and your house. I swear that I will protect you with my life. Ask it of me and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, to see you returned to Winterfell." 

Sansa looked at the sword, a piece of her father's legacy, unsure what to do. "What gains will you receive if you do this?" 

"None. I only ask for the honour of serving you." 

"I cannot knight you, Brienne. I'm not a queen or a knight myself." 

"No, but you can accept me as your sworn shield. Let me be the sword that slays your enemies. Let me the shield that guards you against your enemies. I only ask of you in return that I may keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear, by the old gods and the new, I will see you restored to your rightful place. I will not fail you." 

The small cynical side of her wanted to laugh at the situation she was in. Sansa wanted to clutch her sides and sneer at Brienne's chivalry. Laugh at the irony of it all. 

_ There are no true knights, little bird. _

But that was false, was it not, Sandor? Here stood a woman, strong in her own right, on her knees, offering her sword and shield to her as a true knight from the songs. All her life, Sansa never expected her dream of having a gallant sworn shield would come true like this, vowing so solemnly that she would protect her, come what may. 

The songs always spoke of handsomely armoured men riding white horses, not homely women with torn surcoats and a hollowed cheek. Ser Loras was handsome and gallant. He never raised a sword in her defence either. But Sandor did. 

Gallantry could be found in the most unlikely of places. 

Sansa had to start realizing that. 

As a small part of her chuckled sinisterly, a much greater part sang in rejoice. It was not fair of Sansa to look down her nose at Brienne's valour. She was good and genuine, pure in her devotion, almost innocent. There was no trace of deceit to be found in her oath. Sansa had danced with deception for a long time now, learned and tutored by Petyr to lie and know how to sniff out lies. The art of separating truth from lie came naturally to her now. 

It was therefore not hard what Sansa did next. 

"Rise, Lady Brienne of Tarth." The lady knight did as she was bid and towered over Sansa. In the past, it terrified her, but Brienne's looming form made her only ever feel that much safer. 

Sansa smiled wanly at the other woman, placing a hand on the Valyrian steel sword. "I accept you as my sworn shield. From this day until the day your oath is fulfilled, you will have a place at my table, shield me from my enemies and serve me to the best of your skills. I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonour. I swear, by the old gods and the new, that my honour will forever be tied with yours." 

Brienne gave another one of her slight smiles and dipped her head. "Thank you, my princess. I will not disappoint you." 

Sansa nodded. She wanted to believe that Brienne at least had her best intentions at heart. That at least warranted a small bit of her confidence in her. She just had to wait and see. 

Just as she was about to ask Brienne to follow her out of the godswood, a series of caws startled her. 

"Snow! Snow!" 

Sansa threw her eyes around, trying to find the source. 

"Stark! Stark!" 

It came from above, she realized. 

Sansa raised her head and met the largest raven she had ever seen in her life. It flapped its large wings around, its claws trying to find purchase on the tree, but failing as the snow kept hindering it. Eventually, it settled on a lower branch, coming closer to her and Brienne. 

Her freshly appointed sworn shield came to stand closer to her, protectively holding an arm in front of Sansa. The large raven eventually settled in its place, preening its wings before cawing again. 

"Stark! Stark! Stark!" 

It had the miraculous ability to speak, gods above. Sansa had read that some animals were bright enough to learn speech, but this was the first time she had seen it with her own eyes. The raven seemed fascinated with her, for it refused to tear its gaze away, following Sansa's movements with his eyes. It croaked again, repeating the words it said earlier. 

Sansa was fascinated. 

"Stark! Stark!" 

Something shifted inside her ribcage. The raven's eyes were dark as the night, but they lit up with the amount of brightness that could be found there. Sansa scooted closer, extending a careful hand. 

"Your Grace, I don't think that would be wise." Brienne warned. Sansa did not heed her warning and kept bringing her hand closer until she felt the smooth feel of its sable feathers move and rustle beneath the pads of her fingers. Belatedly, she noticed its bloody beak. Still, she had no fear. It croaked again, much softer this time. 

"Snow! Snow!" 

To Sansa's dismay, it took off again, disappearing beneath the line of the battlements, a single feather dangling back to the ground. Brienne looked baffled at the oddity of it all. 

Just as she was ready to go back inside, the cold becoming too much to bear, the large raven returned loudly. A piece of paper stuck out of his beak. A ruffled letter, Sansa discovered. The raven jutted its head forward, bouncing on its claws and offering the scroll to her. Sansa pulled it out of its beak cautiously. 

"A raven smart enough to deliver a message personally. A wonder from the Seven." Brienne said, standing close to her. 

Sansa tore open the letter with her finger and folded it out, reading the contents with squinted eyes. Her blood froze in her veins, eyes blown and jaws taut with tension. 

"Gods above give me strength...this cannot be..." A hand came to cover her mouth as she threw her eyes back to the heart tree, reeling, eyes stinging as the urge to cry started to creep up on her. Her hands trembled as they clutched the scroll. This could not be true. 

He was supposed to be _dead_. 

Brienne worried her lip and placed a mailed hand on her shoulder with tentative care. "Princess? Is everything all right?" 

Swallowing, Sansa thought of trying to smile, but she did not want to break down during the attempt. She hastily nodded instead, brushing the tears away with a hand. 

Sansa turned her back to Brienne, gazing at the heart tree instead. "P-please, could you excuse me for a moment, Brienne? I need some time alone." 

Her sworn shield seemed reluctant to leave, but did as she was commanded and left the godswood with loud footsteps. Sansa took note of the heart tree, bending her knees, the snow greeting her again with their cold embrace. 

Her hands were twined tightly in front of her face, the letter still in her clutches. She thanked the old gods, tears rolling down her cheek as a light feeling of elation settled in her bones. If she could see herself in a mirror, she was sure she was tearing the muscles in her cheeks apart with the strength of her smile. Soon, her smile gave way for lurching sobs, ugly little fits mixed with small bouts of laughter. 

She thanked the gods, old and new, for answering her pleas. Thanked them for giving her back something she had craved for so long. Thanked them for giving her back a piece of her once beautiful and loving past. Thanked the gods that Jon Snow still drew breath, for the greatest ache inside her subsided, if only a little. 

Now, Sansa knew she was no more the last of the Starks. 

That in and of itself was a thought strong enough to make her thank the gods profusely for this small mercy. 

That was all she asked these days. 

Small mercies. 

It seemed the gods finally deemed her worthy of one. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure there are a ton of mistakes, but I just wanted to have this uploaded. I'll correct them later.

_ **JON** _

_The halls of stone and ash walled him in, the smell of old bones and the feel of roaming spirits __clotting __the air. To each of his sides were stone vigils, old as time and cold as __winter__, large wolves lying at their feet while crowns of spikes and bronze adorned their heads. The Kings of Winter looked at him as he passed by. _

_ You do not belong here... _

_ The walls turned into faces, shifting like bricks upon a shaking wall, blue and red and grey and black. Beasts crawled out of the shades, large and powerful creatures, one of them scaled and the other two furred. The __grey __wolf sniffed his hand, __young and kind, __licking his fingers__. T__he __other, older __wolf encircled him, burying his snout in his side, __affectionate but stern and just. __T__he trout that swam above snarled viciously, __how__ever, wanting__ him away. _

_ It should have been you... _

_ A coldness gripped him. __He felt the terror of cold steel grazing his flesh before he knew it, fe__lt __how it raked across his skin like the canines of a _ _ beast__, fear pouring out of every corner of his body. The stone beneath him was hard, boots clattering against it as he stumbled back. A dull roar enclosed on him, but he had only ears for the chiming of the wind. The cold steel began to dig, a splinter that made him see white with pain. _

_ For the Watch... _

_ From a slow delving, it evolved into a vicious penetration suddenly, the tip of the hilt burying itself deep inside him, grey teeth sinking in his flesh, _ _ ripping and __tearing him apart. A warm, red fluid made its way out of the gap. Pain burst out from the _ _ wound, __a cold burn that both __seared __and froze him to the point of madness. _

_ It wasn't me...! _

_ The pain increased. More teeth dug into the skin of his chest, breaking it, shredding it, ripping into him, the sanguine liquid seeping out profusely, rewarding him with wound__s__ not even the most talented physician in the world could sew back together. Fear threatened to drown him, fear and terror, his body collapsing on the unforgiving arms of the cold ground, footsteps echoing around him like the hooves of frenetic horses. The floor was running red, bleeding. No, _**_he _**_was bleeding. _

_ Ghost... _

_ The scenery changed again. The cold and the sharp whispers vanished like mist, no more clotting his lungs with unadulterated fear, his chest thawing from the frost. Now, something different started to wall him in. The crackle of fire, the smell of smoke, the screams of a little girl and the chants of __a __red __witch __and __a __white sorceress.__ His back titillated with pain, sticks prodding the flesh. _

_ Amidst salt and smoke... _

_ The fire burnt and burnt, licking at his flesh, nipping at his bones, greedy tongues of heat enveloping him. Nothing melted, however. Not a single speck of his body was consumed by the ravenous hunger of blistering fire. He was warm, he was cold. He was alive, he was dead. The screams tore through his ears. A young girl. She was not so fortunate. Her screams haunted him still _ _ , intermingled with the singing of two melodious voices.__He knew those voices. _

_ Dragons wake out of stone... _

_ His heart, once silent and surrendered, woke up with a start, beating like a hammer_ _ upon an anvil, _ _out of control, powerfully, painfully, loud as a crackling thunder bolt during the storm. Smoke and salt, smoke and salt, _ ** _smoke and salt._ **

_ Ghost... _

_ Ghost... _

_ Ghost...! _

* * *

"Ghost...!" 

Jon awoke with a start, gasping, his trembling hands throwing away his sweat-soaked furs to the side in a panic, the weight suffocating and crushing. The cool air greeted his damp body, chest flush with sweat, falling up and down as if he had run from Winterfell to the Wall in only a day's time. 

To his surprise, and heartfelt relief, Ghost had come to his side in only a matter of seconds, his white shadow brushing up against him, tongue lolling out to lick at his arm, soothing him. 

Almost on instinct, Jon carded a hand through his direwolf's fur, the movement easing his thrumming anxiety, water to a sizzling flame. Another hand went pressing against his heart, the ridges of the wound there making his palm clammy. Jon tried soothing his heart, breathing in and out rhythmically, his heartbeat roaring in his ear like a war drum. Slowly but surely, he regained his composure, the anxiety and fear abating. 

Lowering his face, Jon nuzzled into Ghost's white mane, letting his earthy smell of soil and wood and wet fur tickle his nostrils, made calm again by the presence of his most trusted friend and protector. Jon closed his eyes and let himself be tethered to the world again. 

It had been a while since he suffered from such a vivid nightmare. The fear had not yet left his blood, a poignantly stubborn sting refusing to retract, making the hairs on his arms and nape bristle still, but he was calming down at least. Soon enough, he would calm down as he always did, a man always on the verge of drowning but not quite. 

The cold got to him sooner than later, shivers at last claiming their right to rake his body with icy little finger. Jon had foregone wearing a tunic during his slumber. Sleep was hard to find as heat always kept bubbling inside his veins lately. He already had enormous qualms with sleep, and on the nights where his body simply rejected to do nocturnal work, eyes burning and limbs hanging tiredly, simply crawling into the furs and shut his eyes was the closest thing Jon allowed to resemble a night's rest. While the nights were dark and full of terrors for him, his body could only take so much. 

It was choosing between the lesser of two evils. Jon would sooner suffer the physical exhaustion, but his body had a different opinion. At least with a weary body, Jon was not haunted by the cries of his resurrection or the corpse of his death. 

Jon got out of his bed, planting his feet on the cold floor, wincing at the slight throbbing of his soles. Taking a look at the window of his chamber, he noticed the lack of sunlight. Dawn had not yet come. The castle was still asleep. 

He got up and washed himself, splashing water from the basin across his face, the cold burn waking up his sleep-fogged mind. Methodically, Jon dressed into a tunic at a slow pace, taking his time. He pulled up a pair of trousers over his legs and tied the laces of his boots, kicking the nose against the stone floor to better fit his feet into them. 

Jon took a seat on his bed, running a hand through his brown hair as he stared at the floor, deciding what to do. The North had many affairs still that needed his attention. Lumber had to be handed out, lofts and barns needed to be built, wains of grain and barley and salted meat had to distributed amongst the smallfolk, crofters around Winterfell to be built, Wintertown stocked. 

Jon was doing a hundred things at the same time, and it grated on his mind like a whetstone, but did he have another option? The North was in shambles still, even after the fall of the Bolton reign. It was a wounded kingdom that needed nurturing. Jon did everything he could to do right by the North, but it was proving to be a monumental task. 

Swathed in simple woollen garbs, Jon threw his white fur mantle over his shoulders and stepped out of his old chambers, the guards outside immediately steeling their backs straight and greeting him. 

As King, he had every right to take up lodging in the lord's chambers, but Jon did not make good on that right. It felt wrong to take that room, the place where Uncle Ned and Lady Stark took their nights together. The place would forever remind him of the two. He had no will to be reminded of them. Them and the choices they made. 

Many a time Jon had gotten a strange look from his guards whenever he emerged from the lower quarters, where his current chambers were located. A maidservant even barged in once, only to stammer an apology when she caught him in the middle of undressing. 

Walking down the dead quiet halls, Jon went about ordering the guards to replace the low candles. The hour was early, but not for long. Already, a few servants started dashing in and out of chambers, cleaning up or replacing chamber pots. The silence was still prevalent. 

Or so Jon thought. 

The cry of a young babe gained his notice as Jon kept ambling through the dark halls. He halted his advance abruptly just as a door greeted his eyes. The wails came from behind the door. Curious, Jon grabbed the handle and opened, greeted by a milkmaid rocking a babe in her arms. 

"Shh, little one, no need for your cries, you'll be wakin' the wolf king himself with those howls." She was cradling the babe in her arms gently, doing everything to make the child cease its cries. She was not making much progress. Then she noticed Jon standing in the doorway and squealed in surprise. "Yer Grace! Beggin' yer pardon, the babe won't stop cryin'. I've fed him already and all that, but he's a stubborn little rascal." 

Though she sounded lively and gave him a bashful smile, the purple bruises beneath her eyes belied her cheer. Her hair was a rat's nest, tangled and matted, shivers running down her body. The night had been harsh on her. 

Jon stepped up, the girl cringing back as he neared. She was wary of him, Jon realized belatedly. That did not stop him from further nearing her, however. 

Glancing down at the wailing babe, Jon immediately took stock of his pale eyes, two round little coins as white as the moon. Only one family Jon knew of had eyes as pale as milk. 

"Has young Harald been a pebble in your shoe?" 

She glanced down, vainly trying to stop Harald's cries. "He's been upset the whole night, m'lord. I couldn't let him be, but nothin' I do helps him stop his whimperin'." 

Indeed, Harald was balling his eyes out quite loudly. It was a miracle none of the other castle denizens had come and stopped the cries in person; Jon was standing here for little more than a few minutes, and the babe's cries were like the bleats of a terrified lamb. The poor girl had kept it contained in this room all this time too. 

A well of pity opened inside Jon as kept watching how she desperately tried calming the babe, kissing his cheek, lulling him up and down, even giving an attempt at singing. She had to be on her last leg. Her efforts were admirable, but futile. Harald had no desire to settle down, no thanks to her efforts. 

"Stop." He ordered, and the milkmaid froze in her place as he leaned in to better look at the babe. He reached out. "Give him to me. I'll have him until he calms down." 

She looked at him as he had grown another head. "Yer Grace, I cannot! You have yer duties about. The child's my charge, I should take care o' him." 

"And how is that going for you?" It was a curt and harsh answer, the girl lowering her eyes a little dejectedly, but while it was harsh and sharp, Jon meant well. Servants and their insistent behaviour to be of use sometimes proved to be their undoing. How did she mean to continue if she was about to collapse herself? 

Jon took the babe from her arms, ignoring her feeble protest, frowning as he met her demure gaze. "Go and get some sleep. You're more useful to me rested than half dead." 

A tint of pink dusted her round cheeks. She curtsied and excused herself, leaving Jon alone with young Harald. He was squirming in his swaddling clothes, face red from crying, mouth open in a toothless scream. The tufts of black hair on top of his head were ruffled, and Jon went out and caressed his fragile head. 

Jon could not believe himself as he cradled the child. Here he was, taking care of the last living son of Roose Bolton, a man without loyalty, a man whose schemes saw to the death of his bro- cousin. What obligation did Jon have in taking care of Harald? If he was smart, he would have taken the boy to a well or dropped him somewhere in the woods, giving the beasts of the forest an easy meal. 

Suddenly, guilt made his neck grow hot, pulling the crying child closer as he brooded. Harald was born with a dynastic stain to his name, aye, a very dark and very stubborn stain, but other than that, he came to this world innocent and blameless. It was unfair, no, it was downright monstrous of Jon to put the weight of House Bolton's sins on the little boy. His only mistake was that he was born from the loins of a traitor. Jon could not possibly hang the sins of a father around the neck of his son. 

Lady Stark did that to him when he was nothing but a little boy, blamed him for the adultery of her husband. Pinned the sins of a father on a son. 

Was he taking a page out of her book? 

Gilly's babe came to mind then and how he had forced a mother to give up her child for Mance Rayder's. The realization disgusted him still at what he had done. He had been so unscrupulous in the past. He remembers it now. It did not do to have lingering regrets. Jon had honoured his promise to find Gilly's babe a wet nurse. He was now one of the other nameless wildling babes being nurtured by the milkmaids of Winterfell, a life much better than Gilly could have given him. Still, the guilt persisted. 

Jon's eyes darted around, now taking stock that he had left behind the halls of the Great Keep, making his way to the courtyard absentmindedly. Not a single soul was to be seen except for the guards and the hunting dogs barking from the kennels. 

The sky above was still coloured a dark purple shade, the air clean and cloudless, allowing the stars to gleam down on the world. The braziers provided for light, as did the lamplights, a tranquil silence all around and Jon followed the stone path leading to the godswood. 

Harald had miraculously managed to stop his cries, now only cooing uncomfortably every once in a while. His writhing also ceased, and as Jon glanced at him briefly, he saw those eerie pale eyes of his look at him with faint interest, following his own eyes. He knew who he was gazing at. 

His jailor. 

Jon did not know what compelled him to come here, but eventually, the heart tree's weeping face greeted his sight, red sap rolling down the corners of its eyes, white bark almost blending in with the snow covering its branches. A shiver ran down Jon's back. Harald had gone still entirely. 

Finding a dry log, Jon sat down and just permitted the air to grow around him, filling the space with silence. He brought a finger to trace the curve of Harald's cheek as he started brooding. Harald was approaching his third moon now. 

His weight was full, his arms and fists strong like tiny little hammers. Roose had fathered a strong child on the Frey woman. Many a lord would have wanted a babe as healthy as young Harald. A gurgling sound escaped the babe's lips as he took a long glance at Jon. Something inside him churned and twisted. 

_ I've always wished for a son of my own blood. I would have __named __him Robb. _

The memory was sweet and bitter, tasting like the cold ale the freefolk liked to brew. Those were the musings of a black brother. A bastard with no idea who he was, what his purpose here in this world entailed. Not until he saw the terror of the Others. 

Harald was his charge to protect. Him, and all the other children of the North, and their mothers, and fathers and brothers and sisters. The whole of Westeros was his to protect, even if they did not know it. Such was the burden of kingship. To rule over a land and treat its people like your own squabbling kin. 

_ She ripped my dress apart! Arya always does that! Always, always, always! _

_ It shan't be missed anyhow! Joffrey looks like a princess, he's even prettier than you! You don't need stupid dresses to impress him! _

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jon willed the invading memories away. He had no mind to spare for that. It would fill him with melancholy, and then, he would never get work done, lost in his mind about a muddy past. Better to leave that door closed. 

Harald was determined to have his notice, making soft little noises as he stared at him with wide and fixated eyes. Jon hardened his own, forcing himself to kill the rising sympathy for the child. 

"If you think batting your eyelashes will prevent your service to the Watch, you will be sorely disappointed." The child only gurgled as Jon tapped his nose gently. 

Gods above help him, he thought with a frown, Jon was talking to a_ babe _now as he let out a humourless chuckle. Was solitude making him do this? 

"Oh, I did not expect to find you here, Your Grace." Satin said as he entered Jon's line of sight, his steward startled finding him here, with a babe swathed in clothes no less. "Is that Harald you're holding?" Satin asked as his feet dragged to a stop just in front of him, taking a knee to come at the babe's height. 

Jon rearranged his hold on him, cradling him further. "The wet nurse responsible for him didn't manage to catch a wink of sleep. Admirable young lass. I released her of her duty." 

"That's very gracious of you, my king." Satin said after a moment of pregnant silence. He was finding this equally as strange as Satin. "House Flint of Widow's Watch, Overton and Wells have come to Winterfell with wagons of barley. A gift to the new King in the North." 

"Homage, you mean. The Wells and Overtons have been noticeably absent during Robb's campaign south. They also failed to help the Boltons keep their grip on the North. I suppose seclusion was their blessing in these times. How many wagons did Lord Hoarfrost Wells bring?" 

"Three, Your Grace." 

"And the others?" 

"Lords Overton and Bole brought one each." 

If they were steeped with sacks of barley, then a wagon would last a sennight. For a regular upkeep, that is. Winter was coming, and with it, more hungry mouths to be considered. Five wagons full of barley, while a boon, would have to be cut in half, just so Jon could have a safe estimation of how long it would last at least. The lesser lords of the Broken Branch did Jon a favour by bringing these carts, short as they would last. 

A silence fell upon them, fermenting like goat's milk, neither Jon or Satin breaking a single word anymore. Only young Harald made a noise,but not for long. Sleep had claimed him, at last. 

It was Satin who eventually broke the silence when the babe took his rest. "I must remind you that Lord Manderly's offer still lies on the table." 

"Yes, the marriage proposal between myself and Lord Wyman's youngest granddaughter." Jon had to stop himself from shaking his head at the pure arrogance. "Not too long ago, it was he who reminded me of doing the right think if, no, _ when _, Rickon is found, but at the same time, here he is, placing a marriage proposal on my desk four days later." 

If Jon did not know better, he would have almost taken the Lord of White Harbour for a halfwit plagued by his whims. The truth could not be farther from it. 

Wyman Manderly played him both for a pawn and a chance. Should he marry the Manderly girl, Wyman would have a queen for a granddaughter, and mayhaps even have a great-grandchild as heir to the Crown of Winter. At the same time, if Rickon were to be found, the first who would have custody over him would be the Lord Lamprey himself, exerting pressure and influence over Jon. 

The Northmen may be known to be a bunch of honourable savages throughout the south, but politics found its way even in the most brute of people. 

Lord Manderly wanted assurance. Of what, Jon was not sure; his position was secure already. Perhaps he wished the same of the North. Wished to have a firmer grip on the kingdom. 

The usual ambition of a nobleman. 

"The proposal is not necessarily without merit, Your Grace." Satin conceded. "We could use the Manderly dowry, the supply of fish, but most important of all, his loyalty." 

Jon grumbled beneath his breath. "His loyalty to me should be unconditional. I am his lord and king." 

Satin snorted not unkindly. "That is true. I've never been astute in politics. I do know, however, that you're in need of a spouse anyhow, and she is offered to you on a plate." 

"Am I?" Jon was sure he was not. "I don't believe I have need of a wife. What nonsense are you spouting?" 

Satin nodded, tucking a strand of black behind his ear. "I respectfully disagree, Your Grace. Consider it for a moment. Yes, you may not need a_ wife _who warms your bed and sees to your needs_, _but you do need a queen. A queen who is smart and loyal and dutiful, capable of sitting beside you and help govern the affairs of state." 

It earned him a scoff to hear Satin speak with so much sense. "Since when have you been one to know how politics flow?" 

His trusty steward shrugged in answer. "It's really not very hard if you think about it. Consider a kingdom a farm, and a farmer its king, and it becomes much easier. Two farmers arrange a marriage between their children to strengthen ties. There you have it, politics for us simpletons." He turned to chuckle uneasily. "But Your Grace, I was just a mere catamite once. My word may very well have the same worth has horse dung." 

"You are not very far from the truth, for a former catamite." 

A new voice joined, a raspy and high-pitched voice, old but graceful and fluent still. From beneath the alcoves, Lady Barbrey Dustin emerged, swathed in her usual black garbs, her widow's knot trapped in a black hairnet with garnets adorning the threads. Satin stood up at once, bowing, while Jon remained seated. 

"Lady Barbrey." Jon greeted. "To what do I owe your...unexpected visit?" 

The Lady of Barrowton had been scarce around these past few weeks. Jon still considered her with mistrusting eyes, and the feeling was mutual it seemed, for Lady Barbrey narrowed those shrewd eyes of her as she approached, hands clutching her skirts. 

"My king is in need of counsel. I happened to overhear you, and so, I have come here to offer you counsel, Your Grace." 

"Truly? I have not heard from your ladyship for quite some time. It makes one wonder about your intentions." Jon said accusingly. "You've been hiding in the shades all this time, have you not, my lady?" 

"You can spare me your misgivings, Jon Stark. I'm not an old bat determined to scheme behind my king's back." Lady Dustin hissed through her teeth. Jon could feel his mistrust only grow. "I've been here for the better part of yesterday. You must have been too preoccupied to notice me roaming your halls, or your godswood. You make for a poor host, Jon Stark. Let me be the one to tell you something, since you know and see so little of one of your most powerful bannermen. It may come to serve as a good lesson for you." She came to stand closer, hands demurely folded, everything ladylike about her, even the deep crease of her thin eyebrows. "Do you know the history between the Dustins and the Starks, young king?" 

Jon could not say he did. He was thought the history of the North's bannermen by Maester Luwin, but the lessons about the Dustins only extended to their lineage as Barrow Kings descendants. 

Lady Dustin saw his lack of knowledge and proceeded. "Your father and I were lovers once, a lifetime ago. I was infatuated with Brandon, and once I even hoped to wed him. The rest of it all is history as you can see." 

A rash gathered across his palms. Jon felt like a rat at the mention of his dead uncle, the man he took for his father in order to conceal his true parentage. The man whose name he dragged through the mud by acclaiming him for a rogue carelessly begetting bastards on highborn women. 

"I fail to see the relevance, my lady." 

"Listen before you waggle your tongue, Jon Stark." 

Outraged, Satin glared at the older lady. "That is the King in the North you're talking to, my lady. Please, heed your tone." 

Lady Dustin raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Here in the North, we don't titter behind our hands and simper like fools. I am well aware who the boy in front of me is. I shall speak to him the way all northern nobles speak to their leaders." Bringing her eyes back to Jon, she proceeded. "Your father was to be wed to Catelyn Tully, for the sake of his father's ambition. When that fell through, his brother Eddard took the Tully girl as his wife, again, for the sake of Robert's Rebellion. What do they both hold in common?" 

"Duty." Jon answered without pause. He was all too familiar with it. 

Lady Dustin looked pleased, taking a seat next to Jon. "Indeed, duty compelled them to marry the one they did not choose. You are a king, Jon Stark. Kings are bound just as much as peasants to the laws and customs of their people, duty most of all. Lord Manderly's daughter, or the Flint's, or any other bannerman's daughter that is brought before you are potential wives. A potential queen to your kingship." 

"I am in no particular need to have a wife." Jon muttered. Harald began to fuss in his arms, Jon soothing his wails with a couple of hushes. 

"And yet, you are. Like your...friend said, a wife brings with her many advantages that help alleviate your kingly burdens; a dowry for your treasury, loyal men and a vessel for your future heirs. You have a duty to this kingdom to provide an heir, to continue the line of House Stark. Only a wife can give you that." Lady Dustin said, looking at how Jon held Harald with interest. "At least you somewhat have the idea already on how to raise a child. You will need that." 

Jon decided to listen to the woman, though he was not especially inclined to heed her words. He just wanted this to be done with. "Fine then, enlighten me. According to your knowledge, who do you think should be a king's wife? The future Queen in the North? You seem to think yourself knowledgeable enough to see it fit to give a king a lecture on it." 

"Don't be impudent, Your Grace. Take the advice of a lady to heart. I'm here to give you some thoughts, not to hear your barbs." Lady Dustin said, sounding sincere through the layers of tart. "The plainest option is the Manderly girl, of course. She's the grandchild of your richest bannerman. There is also Arrana Umber, the Greatjon's eldest daughter, only a couple of years younger than you. House Flint has enough daughters to field an army and House Karstark surely has a distant cousin somewhere. I can go on and on, but that is not why I'm discussing this with you, Your Grace. You need a wife, that much is clear, you are duty-bound to do so, but remember, choose wisely before you decide to honour your duty. Not any simpering girl will do. You must choose someone who not only fits your needs, but the needs of the North as well." 

Her ladyship then excused herself, wiping off the dirt from her dress and sauntering away, an apparition of a black spectre, the hem of her skirts fluttering like tendrils of smoke and shadows. Jon sat there alongside Satin, simmering in thought. 

She came like a sharp winter gale and left as calm as the first breeze of spring. Lady Barbrey intrigued him, he came to see. 

"Wait." Jon ordered, making the widowed Lady of Barrowton turn around. "I have a question for you, my lady." 

"Truly? What may this question entail?" Suddenly she smirked. "If you mean to wed_ me_, I must sadly disappoint you, Your Grace. I'm sadly passed my childbearing age. Though, s'pose I _could _teach you a thing or two about women." Despite the jest, Jon had to fight the urge to colour at the elder lady's gall. Lady Dustin did take note of his discomfort and smirked. "How intriguing, a man who doesn't think with his cock." 

"My lady!" Satin exclaimed, scandalized, but Jon hushed him with a hand on his shoulder. 

While yes, she was of noteworthy age, Lady Dustin was still a comely woman, no hunch in her back, wrinkles across her face there, but not abundantly so that it would warrant a hint towards elderdom. For certain, she must have been a beauty back in her youth. Jon knew the stories of her torrid affair with his uncle, Brandon Stark. Jon could see why he went after her. 

Lady Dustin turned a wistful leaf, lips curved bitterly as a faraway look in her eyes winked at him. "On a lesser note, you could have been mine in another life, Jon Stark. My son, the rightful Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, not a bastard begotten on some Dayne whore..." 

"Don't slander the dead. My...mother gave you no grievances. She lays in the ground while you still walk the planes of this realm." Jon admonished. Lady Ashara was the mother he took for himself as a cloak of protection, a stranger he knew nothing of, but that did not mean he would permit anyone callously besmirch her name while she was dead. 

"She has a piece of Brandon I could never have." Her answer was a bitter truth, one she did not like to acknowledge at all. "She had_ you._" 

About that, Jon allowed himself to wonder quite thoroughly. Wonder how would have been to have a mother, one so shrewd and cunning as Lady Dustin. Would he have been the same man? Most likely not. Lady Dustin was nothing like Lady Stark. Jon recognized very few things that they had in common. He knew little about Barbrey Dustin, aye, but the little things he did know, they already made him think that she was of a shrewder mind than Catelyn Stark. There had been a question poised on the tip of his tongue more oft than he could count, questions he would have liked the Lady of Barrowton to answer. 

But then, in Lady Dustin's place, another face suddenly took shape. A long and kind face, set with grey stones for eyes and skin as white as ivory, dark brown hair falling down her back. She looked like a girl from his past. A girl he loved very dearly. 

It was an idea that momentarily made him forget everything else around him, a fleeting fancy, a daydream. 

_ To be the son of a beautiful highborn lady such as Lady _ _ Barbrey__. It would have been _ _ like a dream come true__... _

"My lady," Jon began. "I offer you a seat at my table. I could use your counsel in these trying times."

She snorted openly. "My counsel? And what would you have me do, Your Grace? A woman on the King's council? You would risk the scandal of having a lady whisper in your ear? We are not made for politics, or so most men think." The disdainful note was not missed. 

"I am not _most men_." Jon said with steel. "I know for a truth that you're not serious. Take my offer and be part of my council, or retreat to Barrowton and keep stewing in your bitterness about slights of the past." Lady Barbrey did a double-take, surprised. She opened her mouth as she frowned, offended, but Jon did not allow her to speak. "I recognize your worth as a capable woman of knowledge. Use your wits for other things than brooding. Help me keep the North together." He sharpened his eyes. "Be an adviser to a king who never knew the guidance of a woman." 

For a long time, she held her peace, kept her lips sealed tight, a gate locking her thoughts away in her mind. Jon could see the gears turn in her eyes, watch them roll and snap and click like clockwork. 

"You speak boldly, Jon Stark." So did she, Jon mused, but it was better to let that thought to himself lest the woman would sharpen her tongue. Lady Dustin openly spoke to him with thinly veiled contempt, to a king no less. How would her wrath be if truly provoked? Certainly, she had an iron will at least. She smiled, a small but sturdy little gesture, a promise in those cutting eyes. "Very well then, let me indulge your fancy. I'll keep you counselled about affairs you know nothing of, Your Grace." 

Jon nodded and gave his leave to the Lady Dustin. He watched her retreat in the shadows, the darkness of the rising morning devouring her until she was no more in sight. Satin looked at him, smiling uneasily. 

"Lady Dustin is a formidable woman. I should be wary of her and her sharp wit." 

"Aye, we all should. I've seen how many of the northern lords look at her, like she is a rose with thorns sharper than Valyrian steel. They have the right of it. Reckon she made herself formidable. A lady doesn't enjoy agency for long without a steel spine, and she has lived as a widow for so long. Lady Barbrey might be the most powerful woman in the North. 

They both stood up, Jon mindful of the sleeping infant in his arms. As soon as they made way out of the godswood, they heard the loud caws of a raven, making them look up into the sky. 

"Looks like Mormont finally decided to return to Winterfell. Haven't seen the creature in weeks." Satin said as Mormont came down and perched itself onto his outstretched arm. 

"What's this...?" Jon noted, caressing the piece of paper tied to his paw. "A missive? Did he carry a missive with him?" 

Jon took the piece of paper after he handed Harald to his steward, flipping the object over. A jolt of interest made him pull his eyebrows together. 

The letter was sealed with a blue and white sigil, an eagle soaring over the wax. 

The sigil of House Arryn of the Eyrie. 

_ What possible reason would they have to write me? _

He opened the missive and pulled out the letter, folding it open. 

As soon as he read the name at the end of the letter, the pulse of his heart immediately quickened and blood rushed between his ears, a mad pounding suddenly beating inside his ribcage. 

* * *

The hall of the Great Keep was filled with arguing voices, boots clattering upon the floor as the Lords of the North congregated about the latest turn of events. 

"She is a Lannister by marriage! King Robb disinherited her for a reason!" 

"She is the last living child of Ned Stark! Tywin kept her alive for a reason! If she spreads her legs and breeds, her children will not be Starks!" 

"She cannot be trusted! By the laws of men and gods, she no more falls under the protection of House Stark! Surely, the Imp has already gotten her with child! The North will not answer to a Lannister! Never!" 

On and on they went as Jon brooded, over and over again reiterating their hisses of contempt. Jon kept staring off into a corner with a hand cradling his face, sitting upon his throne, nay, _ her _ throne, wearing _ her _ crown, lording over _ her _vassals. The letter she wrote was still held in his hand. 

A myriad of thoughts swirled through his head, sloshing and sloshing until one thought could not be separated from the other. Joy for the most ruled his mind and heart, a hundred embers springing alive in his blood, warming him, comforting him. Jon was elated that after so long, after so agonizingly long, the Gods had answered his prayers. 

He was not alone in this world, after all. 

He could have cried right then and there. 

Jon had read the letter a hundred times now, committing to memory the graceful writ, the words she shared, the way she wrote. Her joy seemingly matched, if not dwarfed, his in terms of brightness. 

Sansa wrote to him that she was well, alive and healthy, whole, words that thawed something inside the castle of his mind. The first thing he wished to do was write back, but the opportunity did not arise yet. As soon as word got out of Sansa's wellbeing, the whole of the North roused from a deep slumber, apparently, for the great hall flooded with lords demanding his regard. 

And as much as Jon was overjoyed over this news, another part began to gnaw at his conscience, insistently, chipping away bits and pieces of his conscious like the thought was a sharp pickaxe and his mind a block of stone needed to be hewn, a deep, ugly feeling of uncertainty, of doubt laced through the tip. 

Now that Jon knew of Sansa's whereabouts, about her condition, what did that mean for him? 

Lord Robett Glover spoke up, addressing the lords that by marriage, Winterfell would pass down to Tyrion's children should Sansa take her place as Lady of Winterfell and ever bear him a son. His point was met with loud roars of disapproval. Wyman Manderly pointed out that he would sooner fall upon his own sword than allow a Lannister, the plotters of his son's death, to rule over his and his kin. 

Maege Mormont was softer in her views, claiming that Sansa had no choice in the matter and was simply a hostage of the Lannisters' ambition, but it fell on deaf ears. The insults grew only fiercer by the second, the disdain for his half-sister turned cousin flowing out of their mouths in waves. Howland had returned from the Neck just now, sitting next to him silently. Barbrey sat with her bannermen, hands folded in her lap and quiet as a mouse, taking it all in instead of sharing her thoughts. 

It all made him sick to his stomach. 

Each barb, each word of insult made him ball his hand tighter, the gloves creaking with each finger straining into his palm. His anger was rising like a raging fire. 

"Enough..." Only Satin by his side heard him mutter the words. The lords were still going at it, hurling vile insults towards Sansa, like she was some witch to be burnt at the stake, a traitor who got in bed with the enemy. His anger soared alongside their callousness, hotter and hotter, a flame feeding on more wood until it grew out of control, until he finally felt himself snap like the strings of an overstrained bow. 

"Enough, damn you all!" 

Jon slammed his fist upon the oak of the table, the cups and burnt candles falling over. Jon garnered the attention of the lords with one fell swoop, glaring at them all as viciously as he could without popping a vein. They stilled immediately upon seeing their king looking ready to hang them all for treason. 

"How dare you." Jon wheezed through his teeth. "To speak of my sister, my _cousin_, the last living daughter of your late lord, the sister of your late king, as if she is some harlot who was eager to warm the beds of our enemies. Others take you all, she was nought but a frightened child when she married, nay, when she was forced to marry Tyrion Lannister!" Finally, some semblance of dignity returned to them as Jon put them on rugs of needles with his angry words. "I will not tolerate another slight towards her. The next person who speaks foul about Sansa Stark, I will have them hung, drawn and quartered. Is that clear?" 

A pregnant silence fell over all the lords. Most of them went bone-white, tongues tied together while reluctantly meeting the King's eyes. The silence was broken by the words of a foolhardy noble. 

"Your Grace, we merely wish to express our concern that she-" Beren Tallhart began feebly, yet the words died in his mouth as soon as Jon levelled his glare on him. 

"Your concerns can _hang_, Beren Tallhart. I care not whether you think of her a demon reborn or the Night's Queen in the flesh. Another word that so much as _speaks _ill of her name, I will personally see to your beheading." 

The uneasy silence settled upon the great hall persisted, the lords looking at each other for guidance. Jon was still clenching his hands. Not even Ghost seemed to temper his wrath. 

He had little tolerance for the way the lords spoke of Sansa. An irrational urge of protectiveness washed over him. Sansa, his sister once upon a time, the only known kin known to be alive. He would not allow even a hint of disrespect towards her. 

"My cousin has invited me to the Vale of Arryn. To finally meet again after so long. I have yet to answer her invitation, but after what I've heard and seen here, my mind is made. I will travel within the moon's turn to the Eyrie and see to this business." 

As he had expected, Jon was met with disagreeing lords entreating him to reconsider, but Jon's mind was made on the matter. 

"Your Grace, before you make a hasty decision, consider your place! Consider the state of your kingdom! The North needs the King in the North _in _the North!" Alysane Mormont said, several lords nodding along her statement. 

"Your cousin rode south, King Jon! Look what happened to him? He died by the blade of traitors. Southrons cannot be trusted! While we fought and bled for Ned Stark, for Jon Arryn, the Vale stood aside and watched as we were butchered! They turned their backs on us! Why should we trust them after that!?" Galbart Glover added fiercely. Jon was against the whole of the northern nobility. They seemed convinced to have their unified stance be heard. 

The northern lords were slowly regaining their confidence to speak out against him. More and more voices joined in, and again, the great hall turned into a room full of squabbling lords unable to calm down their vehement disquiet. 

"Silence!" Jon roared over the din of arguing, drawing Longclaw as he stood up. Descending from his throne, he slammed the tip against the stone, a hard clang silencing the lords and making them sit back in their chairs with cautious regard, cowed by their king's violent display of authority. "I will repeat this_ once. _Within a moon's turn, I will ride alongside an entourage of my own choosing for the Vale and meet my cousin in person." The lords were already in arms, intent on arguing, Jon silenced them with a quick draw of his brows, frowning. "I have spoken. My mind will not be swayed. In doing so, I will now finally address the governance of the North." 

Jon's hand went out, gesturing for Wyman Manderly to step forward, who teetered his girth to the front of the high table. "I cannot possibly hope to rule the North without a proper council. Now that I am planning on leaving the North temporarily, the need of a regency council cannot be more prevalent than now. Lord Wyman Manderly, for your continued loyalty and support to House Stark, I name you High Steward of the North. You will rule this kingdom in my stead alongside the rest of the regency council, to the best of your ability." 

For a second, Lord Manderly seemed daunted and surprised, not expecting this. It was only natural to name his most powerful bannerman to the head of the King's Council. Jon was sure he would be currying much favour with this decision. Satin could tell him all he wanted that he was no good in politics, but his occasional word of advice here and there sure proved Jon otherwise. 

Soon, Wyman returned to his usual self and knelt, nodding. "My king, it would be an honour to serve as your leal servant. I will carry out your will as aptly as I can." 

Jon moved on and pointed for the Lady of Barrowton. "Lady Dustin, I offer you the seat of Royal Spymistress. From this day, all knowledge, plots and schemes will reach your ears, and you shall advise me and the council on all matters of intrigue." 

"Your Grace,” She began, smiling confidently. "I shall do as my king commands." 

"Lady Maege and Lord Galbart." The two stood up from their place, kneeling before Jon. "The Lady of Bear Island will serve as the North's Chief Commander. Lord Glover shall serve as the Lord Treasurer. I have no need to tell you what will be expected of you, correct?" 

"No, King Jon. We know our duties." Maege Mormont answered for the both of them. 

"And finally," Jon turned to Howland Reed. "As Justiciar, I name Lord Howland Reed. I cannot think of a better man than one of my uncle's dearest friends. Will you serve, Lord Reed?" 

"Without question, my king." 

Standing in the middle of the great hall, Jon nodded to his bannermen. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a journey to my cousin to plan." 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than what I'm usually used to, but this and the next chapter are more interludes than anything else. On the plus side, this way, I can post a little sooner. 
> 
> Anyway, before I forget, I want to say that I'm deeply grateful for all the comments that I receive. The reason I don't answer them anymore is that I simply don't know how to express my gratitude, and a simple 'thank you' doesn't do credit to my gratitude to you all.

_ **SANSA** _

These passing few weeks, Sansa did not know what to make of herself. Everything she did, it was finished gracelessly, no feeling of accomplishment or fulfilment to be enjoyed. Art failed to inspire her, lemon cakes tasted dull, the prettiest rings and necklaces and lace and silk remaining to her felt as important to her as simple pebbles and ribbons. 

Her patience also ran thin as of late. Usually, she could muster the patience to endure Sweetrobin and his whining, but yesternight, as she tucked him in and finished reading to him a story about Ser Artys the Falcon Knight, her sickly cousin kept complaining for another tale. Sansa had been exhausted from helping the Lords Declarent with their governing, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude that was ruling over a kingdom, and while she ordinarily indulged Robert's fancies, last night, she found she had no strength to allow him to run roughshod over her and sharply scolded him to remain abed and allow sleep to claim him. He wailed for five hours straight. 

A queer sense of peace and anxiety ruled over her at the same time, evident in every single bit of action she undertook. Sewing became a pastime for her again, a comforting and familiar activity keeping her fingers from stiffness. At the same time, everything she knitted together came out wrong, laces poking out, stitches done incorrectly and colours not blending as well as she thought. Septa Mordane would have been mortified at her shabby works. 

It was so confusingly frustrating to see herself falter so oft. Sansa prided herself on her ability to remain placid, stoic and tall in the face of trouble, but as of late, she was nothing but a twitchy mess. 

And it all had to do with Jon's letter. 

She still remembered the events of that day and what she had discovered quite vividly. 

One of Lord Yohn Royce's men had travelled to White Harbour in order to take pulse of the situation around the North, around Winterfell and how the Boltons were faring. The letter he had written contained a fair amount of information, explaining in great detail what had transpired the last six moons. 

Jon Snow had retaken Winterfell from the traitor Roose Bolton, aided in his campaign by a horde of fierce wildlings in what they coined as the Battle for Winterfell. The informant said that bards all across White Harbour sang of two white wolves savagely cutting through Bolton men across the battlefield, one holding a bloody sword of gleaming steel with dark ripples while the other tore apart enemies with fangs as big as daggers, a menacing creature whose glowing red eyes struck terror in the hearts of every man present that day, both friend and foe alike. 

The battle was won, the day was House Stark's. Once more, a Stark held Winterfell, and for his valour, Jon was proclaimed a king by the whole of the North, further supported by a royal decree from Robb himself, naming him His Grace Jon Stark, Second of His Name, the King in the North and Lord of Winterfell. 

And then, as if that was not enough of a revelation, it turned out that Jon was someone else entirely. He was not her brother, not Eddard Stark's son, but her cousin, son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne. 

All of it was so much to take in. Sansa had to lower herself on a seat somewhere and breathe in a few times in order to cool her nerves, gathering her thoughts again, and when she did, her mind leap-frogged between a thousand different feelings, not knowing where to settle. 

The greater part of her heart sang, her blood running warm in her veins as a smile threatened to tear her cheeks apart. She heard the rumours about the man she thought her brother tear down the enemies of her family, _ their _family, and reclaim their ancestral home over and over again, like it was one of her favourite songs, each time feeling happier at the knowledge that the North was ruled by a Stark again. Indeed, Jon sounded like a gallant knight straight out of a song, rising out of the mist to a wounded kingdom's rescue and see it put to right. 

But as rosy as her thoughts were about Jon, a tinge of green intermingled through it as well, a shade so light it went unseen almost. 

A delicately small part of her, a hideously green little worm writhing about, was jealous that, in the middle of all this, amidst the chaos and tragedy and loss and heartbreak her family suffered, Jon had risen so high and so proudly. From bastard to King in the North. Before that, he soared to the rank of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, prestigious in and of itself. Not even Uncle Benjen had managed to achieve that. And whenever she felt that little burn of envy, shame and guilt would whip her into submission. 

She, on the other hand, had fallen from grace so steeply, Sansa had gotten a taste from the ground she would never forget. All because of her own blind naivety. From a lady of the highest pedigree to an accused kingslayer, a fugitive, to the bastard daughter of a man whose noble blood was earned through lies and flattery and murder. 

_ Should I have expected anything less? Robb and Jon were the closest of comrades, brothers by blood and love. Equally smart, equally able. _

Finally, Jon made a name for himself. She may have not interacted with him so oft, that did not mean she was blind to his skills and smarts. 

Sansa could not begrudge Jon of his successes in life while she only suffered slaps across the face. All his life, he faced disdain because of his birth. Disdain at her mother's hand, Theon's hand,_ her _hand even, subdued as it was. 

Sansa knew Jon always dreamt of ridding himself of his bastard name, of ridding himself of that stain and prove to all, mostly her mother, that he was not some ill-begotten creature with no worth. 

So, she tried her damnedest to push away those flickering sparks of envy and smiled. Smiled for herself and for Jon, smiled for his achievements, smiled over Winterfell's restoration, letting fragile pride and content reign over her in order to forget that horrid sense of jealousy. It was irrational and meaningless, she knew, but she could not help it. For certain, Jon had faced his own trials before he got where he was now. 

Just like her. 

"Brooding again?" Mya said, coming out of an alcove, her teeth sinking into an apple. Seems she grew a liking for apples, much like the ser who once fancied her but left to find meaning elsewhere. "I heard you Starks are born brooders. They like to stare and ponder and think about all kinds of bollocks. You seem to have inherited your forebearers' talent." 

Sansa softly tittered, though it lacked humour. "I have a lot on my mind. I never knew ruling a kingdom would ask of me so much." 

Sansa steered the conversation elsewhere, not willing to speak about what actually plagued her. Over time, she grew skilled in that talent, steering talks towards ends she found more favourable. 

"A daughter of the mountain has no need for such worries." Mya shrugged. "S'pose I'm in luck then, eh?" Sansa nodded absently, eyes cast down, looking at her lap. She heard Mya taking a seat next to her, stretching her lithe body. "You know, I never truly believed you to be a Stone." 

Sansa blinked, turning to look at her friend. "What makes you say that?" 

It was Mya's turn to roll her shoulder. "Your words are too gentle, you smile too prettily. You sit like a proper lady as well and speak the same as any of those tittering highborn maidens who've tried their luck in charming Harry. With your flaming red hair, you remind me of Lady Lysa." Mya batted her lashes, laughing mirthfully as she turned to her. "Oh! I now remember where I've seen your grace. It must've come from her. From Lady Stark, Lysa's lady sister." 

Being compared to her mother's grace brought a more genuine smile to her face. "Thank you, Mya." 

"Though lately, you haven't been your pretty little self." She added, swinging her head from side to side. Sansa gulped, fingers dragging over her lap, picking at some lace that was not there. "The Lords Declarent have grown worried that their Lady Regent is losing her gift with Sweetrobin. Since you've been here, the lordling hasn't demanded anyone be thrown out of the moon door. Now, because of your...brooding, you've started neglecting our valiant Defender of the Vale. His whinings have increased." 

It was meant as a jest, but Sansa worried her lip anyway, teeth sinking into their flesh lightly. She did not mean to be so...so...she did not know how to describe it even. Aloof? Distrait? Sansa felt like she was tumbling like a leaf in the wind. Her heart just did not beat like she wanted it to. This mysterious torrent of conflicting emotions sloshed at the walls of her mind, plaguing her body like a rabid fever. She was restless and content, anxious and giddy, excited and frightened. 

Why? 

"Is it mayhaps because of your cousin that you're so lost in your head?" Mya remarked in a teasing voice. Her heart skipped a beat, the haze of confusion lifting. 

Was that perhaps why? 

"I'm not so sure, Mya." Sansa said, shaking her head gently, disliking herself for sounding like such a lost little pup. Looking up at the darkened sky, she gazed at how the stars blinked at her. Stars that also looked down on Jon well. Would they be looking at the same stars right now? It was a comforting thought. It made the rift between seem smaller. 

"Why don't you tell me then why you're not so sure?" Mya grinned. "We're still friends, aren't we? I'd like to think of us still as two friends." 

"Of course, we're still friends." Guilt licked at her as the words spilt out of her lips. She made that claim without pause, but Sansa had to be truthful and admit that she had not been the most attentive of comrades as of late. All the time she had left between breaking fast and retiring for the night was filled with the most formidable of tasks. 

Sansa enjoyed her usefulness, she admitted. She was good with writing, had a decent mind for stewardship and always made sure to receive and send off Robert's bannermen with the utmost deference. The value of her education was not left squandered. Contrary to what most people believed, a lady's duty included much the same as that of her lord husband's, only in the form of advice. Now, Sansa had to fully use her smarts, filling both the shoes of a lord and lady. 

And so, her lordly duties also had the consequence of robbing Sansa of any opportunity to be a good and loving friend. She decided to change that here. 

"For a long time now, I've felt like I've been crossing swords, the world my adversary and a wooden buckler as my only shield. I've never been much of a fighter, and this fight has felt as if the Warrior himself armed with Valyrian steel has battered me over and over again." Mya had her lips pursed, looking at her sideways. Sansa continued. "When Lord Baelish died, a noose fell off my neck. I finally broke through a floor of ice and got that first gulp of fresh air which has been denied to me since the day my father was executed." A hum probed her to continue, soft skin landing atop the expanse of her fingers. Mya's hand began to fiddle with the veins of her hand, a loving gesture of support. "But that sense of freedom faded with time. Settling in a new pace, doing everything I can to keep Sweetrobin healthy and alive, assisting in the regency. I found purpose..." Then, Sansa shook her head. "No...not purpose. Activity. Work with no fulfilment." 

"You mean to tell that you're dissatisfied with us, princess?" 

"No!" She immediately answered, but quickly recovered as she heard her friend chuckle good-naturedly. Her cheeks were red from embarrassment, pouting at Mya, who continued her bout of laughter. 

"I'm merely jesting." Was she, though? Mya's voice hinted at humour, but Sansa knew that in every jest a grain of truth was nestled. Mya was not wrong in her assumptions; Sansa _ had _grown weary of the Vale. Weary of the cold mountains and the air, thin and sharp as a needle, weary of the heights and the narrow passes, the crisp blue sky like a roof of glistening ice above her. Her patience with Robert's whining also teetered close to the edge. Where once she could endure much of him, nowadays, even a simple sniffle would cause her to curve her lips in disdain slightly. 

Sansa found herself to be so utterly hollow. 

"Though I cannot blame you." Mya continued. "The Vale is a quiet kingdom for the most part, enclosed by mountains all around. The only bit of encounters that could happen here involve the wildlings due west of the Eyrie, up in the foothills of the Moon Mountains. That will end soon as well. Lord Lynderly has called for an assembly of fifty knights to get rid of their final villages. I heard Ser Harrold was of a mind to also participate." 

At the mention of Harry the Heir, Sansa coloured a little, thumbs rubbing at her thighs in an attempt to lessen an imaginary rash. 

Since his trial, Harry had changed his ways that surprised the better part of the Vale's nobility. Once a pompous spoilt noble, Harry's arrogance had tempered, making way for admirable modesty. A few days in the dungeons and a death sentence hanging above his head had done him a kindness, it seemed, for he had become such a well-spoken and friendly knight compared to when Sansa had first met him. Was it such a trauma that he had decided to turn over a leaf and better himself as a person? Sansa knew not what to make of it, but it was a welcome change nonetheless. 

Harry had begun to shower her with small tokens of affections, tokens that were not wholly rejected, if she were honest. He was generous with his dimpled smiles before, but now, he grinned toothily at her with unbridled enthusiasm every time they crossed paths. It seemed to have become his quest in life to always find her alone and offer to have an amiable walk through the woods whenever she had the time. Not always she accepted, but the few times she did, they laughed and shared light-hearted stories that brought a warm flush to her cheeks. 

It almost felt like a courtship. 

Once upon a time, it was everything she wished in her life. To be courted by a bright comely man such as Harry. To be regarded with laughing eyes, to be complimented on her beauty and fair choice of fashion, to be admired for how much of a well-groomed lady she was, to be loved for her grace. Harry did that all, never wavering in his pursuit. 

But Sansa remembered herself. 

_ Harry is promised to someone else. Randa and he are to be wed after his three year of service as a Winged Knight of Robert's knightly brotherhood. I cannot dare to dishonour that pledge. _

It was a painfully lonesome realization, but she sobered as fast as she could, knowing now how indifferent the world was to the heartaches of girls lost in their fairy tales, girls like her. 

They were not meant to be. 

Perhaps in another life. 

In another life, Harry could have been her lord husband and her dreams would have been realized. 

"Sansa. Look. Your sworn shield is approaching." Mya nudged her with her elbow. Sure enough, Brienne and her squire came marching up. The other visitors of the gardens were making room for them, stepping aside hastily as they saw how the tall lady clad in armour made her way to her with even steps. She seemed in a hurry. 

"My princess, a word if it pleases?" 

"What is it, Brienne?" 

The lady hailing from Tarth frowned severely, a hand resting on the pommel of her sword. "Do you remember the large raven? The one that brought to us word of your brother? Or, cousin actually..." 

Sansa blinked, remembering. "Is it here again?" 

Her answer was a series of caws. Up in the sky, the sable creature circled over them like a predator looking for prey. Brienne offered her arm and snapped her fingers a few times, earning her the raven's attention. It descended quickly and came to settle upon Brienne's arm, flapping its wings a few times before ruffling them into their place. 

Mya whistled, impressed by her display of talent and Brienne noticed that, blushing a little. "My lord father gave me a falcon as a nameday gift once, back when I was just a young maiden like you. While ravens aren't quite the same, this one is certainly big enough to pass as one. I haven't yet forgotten my falconer lessons." 

Sansa gave her a soft smile. "Your father sounds like a good man." 

"I remember my lord father fondly. He is a kinder man than most would have been to a daughter like me." Brienne nodded and then went to pick up the little scroll tied to the raven's paw. The sigil of her family, of House Stark, was proudly embedded in the beeswax. Sansa felt warm all over. 

Since she came to know of Jon's circumstances, Sansa had grown slightly mistrustful towards the Lords Declarent. Apparently, they were aware for quite some time of his plight, yet never deemed to see it fit and tell her about it as well. 

The letter she had read from Lord Royce's informant had a tone of urgency, as if affairs were handled not the way they wanted. She had yet to confront Lord Royce about them. Sansa even omitted to confide in Myranda, fearing that she would tell her kin that now, Sansa had been aware of the situation in the North too. 

A lot of good was spoken about Lord Royce, she had garnered during her time as Lady Regent. Not a single servant she had not spoken to in order to assemble as much knowledge as she could, for it may be so that the Vale nobility wanted to protect her, she was still a valuable piece in the game nobles always liked to play. 

The game of power and wealth and thrones and crowns. 

Yohn Royce was a man with a robust honour, as unassailable as the bronze armour he always donned, but at the same time, he was also described as a man with a shrewd mind for intrigue. 

For so long, all Sansa's worth amounted to was her birth and blood. It was what many people around her said so. Petyr, Cersei, Tywin, Margaery, Olenna. All of them desired her because of what she brought with her. The key to the North. For certain, Lord Royce was of a similar mind. For certain, he saw a chance in Sansa as well. A chance to mayhaps put a Royce next to her. 

And claiming Winterfell through her. 

Taking hold of the scroll, she read the contents with barely held back anxiety. What could Jon have possibly answered to her? Would he be dismissive? Aloof? Overjoyed like her? Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the piece of paper. 

_ Dearest Sansa, _

_ I've never been good with words, you might know. If I were, this letter would have been much sooner in your hands and much more elaborate. Just know that it heartened me so when I knew that you were safe, healthy and protected. Keep yourself safe, Sansa, I'm making my way to the Vale. My travels will first bring me to White Harbour, and from there, I'll be taking a ship to the Fingers and make way to the Eyrie. Give me a moon's turn. I'll be there soon. Wait for me, I'll bring you back home, Sansa. _

_ Yours sincerely, _

_ Jon _

Her vision blurred a bit, tears wetting her eyes. _ He's coming for me. Jon's coming for me to bring me home again. _ Sansa felt so warm inside, it was as if a hundred suns were entrapped within her chest. A smile sprung up over her face, cheeks red and eyes puffy. _ Jon has always been the kindest amongst us. He always kept his word. _

"What does it say, princess?" Mya stood by Brienne's side as her sworn shield loomed over them like a formidable fortress. 

Folding the letter back, she kept staring at it for a solid second before bringing it to her lips in a hopeful kiss. Tilting her head, she aimed her watery eyes at Brienne and Mya, lips trembling. 

"My family is coming to bring me back home." 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay then, the next chapter will be the anticipated reunion. All things are set. Hopefully, I can keep a faithful schedule and update soon.

_ **JON** _

A satisfying ache had begun to spread across the palm of Jon's hand, courtesy of writing a plethora of letters and decrees in the early hours of the morn. Dipping the quill back in its inkpot, Jon fit together his hands and rubbed the soreness out like it was a poison, closing his eyes for a second and enjoying the feel of his muscles loosening. 

Bless the gods, they had given him a night without mares this time. He had actually slept for a change, tucked beneath the furs and finding the familiar coarse feel of his old bed putting him to rest. It was not peaceful, but it was also not fitful, just a state of utter nonexistence almost, a dreamless slumber, one that settled in the deepest parts of his bones, pinning him to his bed and all but forcing him to let himself rest. His body and mind had finally enough of the countless nights of toiling and searched for rest. 

"My lord? Have you eaten, yet?" Satin inquired as he stepped inside the solar, holding up a tray. "I imagine you haven't. You shun food whenever it threatens to distract you." 

"A kingdom never rests." 

"A king should rest now and then." 

Jon removed his eyes from his letter, glancing at Satin. "But we don't have 'now and then'." 

_ And neither do the dead. _

Settling back the North had taken a great deal of his time and effort, but in the back of his mind, always, _always, _the threat beyond the Wall persisted, a white shadow rearing itself over his thoughts menacingly. 

The Night's Watch had appointed a new Lord Commander, Edd had written to him. As the 999th Lord Commander, they choose Emmet, the pride of Eastwatch-by-the-sea. When he received word of his nomination, Jon nodded to himself in approval, glad that someone with great regard had been elected, someone who demanded authority purely because of how he wielded his blade. Iron Emmet was a staunch and strong man with steel in his spine. It also helped him greatly that he was a terrific swordsman. Men at the Watch favoured brawn over smarts. He would do right by the black brothers 

"Just now, Maester Henly has informed me about a missive from the Iron Bank." Satin slid a letter out of his garbs and placed it on his table. "Tycho Nestoris sends his regards." 

"Have you read its content?" 

"I would never dare, my lord. The seal remains unbroken, yet." 

True enough, the seal was indeed not broken. Jon changed that by grabbing his knife and cutting ribbon before breaking the seal, unfolding it. 

He read through Tycho's writing quickly, brows brought together in a thoughtful frown. Lord Tycho Nestoris served as an important conduit between the King in the North and the Iron Bank of Braavos, an instrumental broker in convincing them to agree to lending a few loans to the North. 

In his letter, he wrote of his success to convince the High Councillor to extend a handsome loan with a reasonable interest. A tenth of the loan as a rate was generous, Jon found, but nevertheless, he had hoped for better. It was greedy, mayhaps, but greed could be forgiven if it was done for the good of his realm. Sadly, Jon was not in a position to argue. Beggars could not be choosers. 

Jon's treasury was in desperate need of coin. The discovery of copper and obsidian back in the northern mountains and the abundance of timber across the kingdom helped to declare the North solvent for the Iron Bank, and the large quantity of silver stored in White Harbour opened to him when he appointed Lord Manderly as High Steward, but the trickiest part of all was proving the North was rich with resources. 

Ramsay Bolton severely lacked in administrative talent, that much was quite clear. When Jon retook Winterfell, it was an absolute disgrace how the administration of the North had been handled. It was so dishevelled that it had to come down to settling and reorganizing the ledgers and accounts. It took Jon the better part of two days before he finally could say that it was coherent and comprehensive again, even as he was assisted by Satin and the Maester Rhodry. 

Finishing the letter addressed to Lady Barbrey, Jon gathered his documents and stored them away. "Are the preparations complete for my departure for the Vale?" 

Satin nodded. "Yes, my lord. We've gathered a hundred men or so to be your escort to the Eyrie. Your council is still not of the opinion that the King in the North should leave his kingdom, but their concerns are nothing new to you." 

"Nor are they wholly unfound." Jon admitted as he scratched his face, the light shadow of a beard appearing beneath his fingers. 

Jon remembered the ancient words Uncle Ned always said to all his children. 

_ There must always be a Stark in Winterfell _. 

Jon did not wish to trade the safety and familiarity of the North for whatever the southron kingdoms would likely offer him, but he had little choice on the matter. Sansa was out there, alone and likely afraid, a lone and wounded she-wolf howling for her packmates. How could he possibly leave her call unanswered? The only kin left to him for all he knew? The sweet summer girl he remembered as the ideal highborn lady who always dreamt of gallant knights and pretty songs? 

No, he refused to let her remain there, amidst the southrons. He needed her here, back in Winterfell, back where she belonged, where Jon could protect her from further harm. 

Winterfell belonged to a Stark. 

A trueborn Stark. 

"Anything else I have to be notified about?" 

"Well..." Satin trailed off. "Lady Val has returned from gathering her party. She's supposed to leave Winterfell today in search of your cousin, Lord Rickon." 

Abandoning his chair, Jon gestured for Satin to follow him as he left the confines of his peaceful solar. "Truly now? What took her so long to find suitable companions? It's a simple search, not a quest for orichalcum. She has no need for a party armed to the teeth." 

"I heard from the smallfolk that unicorns and cannibals call the isle their home. It sounds like a pit of hell. Dangerous creatures dwell there." 

"I suppose you're right. This is still Skagos we're talking about." An unexpected memory of one of Old Nan's stories appeared on his mind. "Will she be fine, you reckon?" 

"I know not, Your Grace. All I heard is that the Skagosi are not dissimilar to wildlings. If anyone, it should be her that knows how to deal the best with these kinds of folks, right?" 

Satin sounded oddly dismissive of the blonde wilding princess, as if he was eager for her to depart already. Satin was usually appreciative and kind to others, but Val always made a muscle jump in his jaw, Jon realized. 

"Your Grace..." Satin muttered softly. "Do you really feel it's a good idea to have the Lady Val go after your Lord Rickon?" 

"I think we've discussed this once, haven't we?" Jon said. "She's a capable woman, renowned amongst the wildlings and their culture. Surely, she would know what to do." 

"I'm not so sure..." 

Stopping, Jon crossed his arms and stared hard at his privy steward. "What makes you say that?" 

It came out gruffer than he intended, and Satin clammed up like an oyster at the tone. Jon did not know why he even spoke like that; so defensive and guarded on Val's behalf. He regretted it immediately as he noted Satin's cringe. 

"Forgive me, Your Grace. It's nothing. Forget that I ever opened my mouth." 

Feeling the overwhelming need to remedy the situation, Jon gently grabbed his friend by the shoulder, halting his bolt. "Satin, I did not mean to sound so harsh." Squeezing his shoulder, Jon willed him to understand that he valued his voice. "Drop the formalities. Speak plainly to me. What has made you so hesitant around Val all of a sudden? I remember vaguely that you held her in high regard back in Castle Black." 

Biting his lip, Satin demurred to open his mouth, the words dying on the slope of his tongue. "My opinions have changed. Everything has changed since then..." 

Now that he thought about it, Satin had become been distant, afraid even, towards Val since their leave from the Night's Watch. He made himself scarce every time the wildling warrior came to break words with Jon, going out of his way to never cross paths with the wildling since the day of Jon's revival. It occurred to him that he had yet to find the two together in a room. 

Satin was subtle about it, not allowing many hints to be picked up, but fear was hard to conceal all the time. Jon had to wrestle with his whenever he looked at himself through a looking glass, hoping every time that his dark eyes would not start to burn like dirty chips of ice. He recognized that fear now in Satin's eyes. 

"I-I just..." Satin struggled, trying to his best to speak the words he failed to choke out. "I just can't understand why you would keep yourself around a woman such as her, Jon. Accepting her friendship, heeding her words, giving her note. She's dangerous and without scruples. You're well rid of her." 

"She's a woman of the highest ranks amongst the free folk. They listen to her, follow her, accept her word for law. Tormund is not here, so naturally, they defer to her leadership. I_ need _her to keep the peace between the northerners and the free folk." 

"Recall your friend Tormund then. At least he didn't go and burn a little girl alive." 

Jon inhaled sharply, frozen from the inside all of a sudden, reeling back from a slap he never received. "W-what...?" 

Satin fluttered his eyes, taken aback, surprised, shocked,_ horrified_. "You mean...you don't know?" 

His heart pounded excruciatingly against the walls of his chest. "Know what...?" 

Satin wet his lips nervously. 

"Don't you know _how _you've been resurrected?" 

* * *

Red. That was all he could see for a whole minute. Red as red as it came, as red as the fire that danced on his burning pyre, as red as the blood that flowed out of his wounds, as red as the comet that flew over Westeros several years ago. As red as Ghost's eyes. 

All Jon could see was red. 

Harshly, his boots stampeded on the soil beneath, squelching noises following his wake. People around him made themselves scarce the moment he was to cross paths with someone, sent into fright at the sight of their king spewing fire through his nostrils almost. Several guardsmen looked concerned and inquired after the reason of his anger, but Jon only clenched his jaws and marched forward, mind narrowing down on one target. 

She was standing there, readying her horse, a band of wildlings around her doing the same. She looked ready for travel, swathed in pristine white furs and breeches, her bone-hilted daggers hanging from her hip. Val was filling her satchel with a flask of water and some bread before she took note of Jon. 

"King Crow." She greeted with cheek, smirking, her lack of notice to his anger further stoking the beast inside him. How dare she act so carefree. "Heard you'll be leaving your pretty castle soon to make it even further south." 

"Follow me, Val. We have things to discuss." It was difficult to contain his voice, to let it sound even and controlled where all he wanted to do was tear into her right then and there. 

"We're about to leave. What could possibly be of such import that-" 

"_Now_." 

Her golden eyebrows furrowed together, vexation written across her face, but she relented after a moment and informed her band to wait for to return. He all but dragged her by the elbow to the godswood, ignoring her outraged protest before he pushed her into a clearing rather harshly. 

"What has gotten into you!? Val said brusquely, her face twisted into a deep snarl. 

"Is it true?" 

Val failed to understand the severity of his question, her snarl still persisting, sharp as that of a bristling bear. "What are you speaking about? Is what true?" 

Jon closed the gap between them in a flash, grabbing Val by the slopes of her shoulders, eyes wide and feral. "Is it true!?" 

"Others take you, have you gone mad!?" Val hissed, struggling to escape his iron-clad hold. 

"Did you sacrifice Princess Shireen Baratheon in order to resurrect me?" The question was asked in a low voice. After Satin told what had really gone down that dreaded day in Castle Black, Jon could not bring himself to speak, or think or feel. It was as if he was frost-bitten from the inside, lying at the bottom of a frozen lake, so unbearably cold the insides of his chest that Jon thought he breathed out ice. 

Val dropped her scowl the moment she heard Shireen's name, grey-blue eyes he always found so alluring blown wide and large, the allure in them withering away like the petals of a dying winter rose. She licked her lips and stayed quiet. It was infuriating. "Answer me, damn you!" 

It seemed she had regained her poise, breaking free of his hold with a powerful roll of her shoulders. Val looked at him with narrowed eyes, not a single speck of emotion there. Jon was staring in a void of grey and blue. It chilled him. 

"I did what I had to do." 

Jon had been nauseous only a few times in his life. It was a point of pride for him that he had such an iron gut, capable of stomaching even the strongest horrors. Once, he witnessed how Robb had fallen from his horse during riding, breaking his arm in several places. The bone stuck out like a bloody sword, angry and repugnant. They were both ten-and-two then. Even Uncle Ned and Maester Luwin grew pale at the sight. 

The first time he was present for an execution also failed to prove towards gruesome sights. The aper's head rolled over the ground, his body trashing as copious amounts of blood spurted out of the stump his head was strung on not too long ago. 

This, however, this piece of knowledge, this little revelation... 

It made him retch almost. 

Jon staggered back, leaning his head into his palm as he looked down. "By the gods..." The shock had made his mouth go dry, coarse as the sands of a desert. A sudden memory, sharp and painful as the sting of a dagger, came to him then. 

_ “My lord? May I have a word?” Jon startled, snapping to attention. The young girl with scars of greyscale tucked at his cloak to gather his attention and she stared meaningfully. Never had he heard such a soft and meek voice before. _

_ “What ails you, Princess Shireen? Are you furs not sufficient enough? The servants can bring you warmer garments if you so wish.” _

_ Shireen bowed her little head so demurely her septa would have shed proud tears at the grace. She turned to the body of her father being placed upon the pile of firewood. _

_ “Your concerns are heartening, my lord, but I am not discomforted by the cold. I merely wish to put the pyre to flames.” She requested with a whisper, feather-light and almost afraid to be heard. _

_Jon demurred. __“Are you certain? I'm sure one of the knights is more than willing to do so. I don't wish to presume, but I’m certain no one would think _ _ ill _ _ of you if you do not do this.” Jon tried to persuade her, but the young Baratheon did not falter. Instead, she determined further, shoulders squared and back straightened.__ It was then that a certain strength seeped into her bones and showed itself, a strength Jon did not seem to notice earlier. _

_ “Please my lord, I disagree." She said, trembling. "Do me this kindness. He was my king, yes, but he was my father as well. I wish to see him off with mine own two hands. A daughter is ought to show strength in the face of her late father.” _

_ The first time Jon had laid his eyes upon the small child, he was convinced she would not come to see the end of the coming winter. She was of an age the same as Arya and appeared just as scrawny. But Arya was strong, a __willful__ child with no ounce of hanging fat on her body. What weight the youngest Stark girl did have, it was probably all bones, skin, innards and muscles, but no fat. _

_ The Princess Shireen did not have muscles nor fat, Jon observed. So that remained bones, skin and innards. Even little Bran after he fell from the tower that dreadful day, sickly and crippled as Jon sadly remembered him last time, would have looked brawny as a giant next to Shireen Baratheon. _

_ Shireen never struck Jon as a strong child, rosy frail and delicate as she looked. Jon was convinced Shireen could at least have been a pretty lass, nothing striking but not a hideous sight, pleasant and normal to the eyes of a man of common sense, were it not for that scar. Alas, only a trained eye and depthless humility could manage that. _

_ How else? Her mother was just as feeble and not quite a sight to behold either. Shrivel and sour-faced, as if the saplings of a lemon tree were planted in her throat, _ _Selyse_ _ Florent was a frowning crone. Sadly, the blood of Shireen’s father did little to thin out _ _Selyse’s _ _influence. _

_Or so Jon had thought. _

_ Now his mind began to regard the little girl in another light. _

_ Her Baratheon eyes were pointed and steeled just as she finished speaking. For the barest moment, those blue eyes brimming with tears were not Shireen’s, but a different Baratheon’s. The one with the firmest jawline Jon had ever seen, a cropped beard and a blistering gaze that could have melted Valyrian steel. How could Jon refuse that? He did so once in Castle Black with strenuous effort, and regretted it every passing moment. _

_ “You speak bravely, Your Grace. I can only bid as you ask.” _

"Why...?" Jon managed to choke out brokenly. 

Val looked away. "It was the only way." 

"The only way for what!? You burnt an innocent little girl at the stake!" Jon shouted, the muscles in the hollow of his throat straining impossibly. "What possible madness possessed you to put a harmless girl to death like that!?" 

"Harmless!?" She screamed back. "She was a calamity in the making! The child was not clean! I told you, time and time again, that it would've been a mercy if we had just put her to death with a mere swing of our blade. Already, the grey death crept alongside the western side of your Wall, and it was_ she_ who brought it to our shores. I allowed her to live for so long..." Again, she looked away. Val looked like someone had eviscerated her. Pain and guilt coloured her expression brightly, an agonizing work of art that caused the inside of his guts to churn and stir uneasily."...because you are right, she _ was _an innocent child." 

Her conflict bled across her face. Clearly, the weight of her decisions haunted her still, but as much as she regretted her decision, no amount of guilt would ever absolve Val of her sin. 

"I had no desire to have her put death for petty satisfaction, but circumstances...forced us to do the unthinkable. When you and that king with the flaming crown died...the red woman and her entourage lost all reason. We were all beside ourselves, trying to figure out what to do." A shudder left her lips. "So when they dragged the girl to her death, thinking that her sacrifice would resurrect her dead father, I stood there and watched. I stood there and refused to let my men intervene. I allowed them to do as they liked. Then_ she _came to me. The witch forced me to join her in speaking her incantations, to increase the strength of her wicked magic." For the first time in their talk, Val looked him in the eye. She was stone-faced and impervious to any feeling, frigid and beautiful and ruthlessly cruel, a living creature of ice. A creature not dissimilar to a white walker. "And I helped. To all our surprises, it was not that southron king, but _you _who came back from the dead." 

Jon's teeth ground together harshly, jaws locked together so hard, it began to hurt after a while. Val was unfazed by his wrath, but that changed when Jon slowly stepped, her hands coming up to her daggers. 

When he was close enough to feel her breathe. Jon inhaled before he spoke. "I should have you hanged for child murder." 

"You know nothing, you ungrateful kneeler." Val spat out defiantly. "You stand here because of _me. _Don't be acting like you're a better man, someone with scruples. You're nothing but a crook. Do you think I don't know what you did to Mance's son? My sister's boy!? Or that Craster girl's?" 

"You dare compare them!? I would never put a child to death so savagely as you allowed!" Jon snarled, the hairs on his nape bristling at the mere audacity of her comparing her actions with his. 

"Aye, you wouldn't." Her tone dimmed to a whisper. "Honourable King Crow wouldn't dare do that. You've never faced true quandaries to know the pain that comes along with them." 

But he did... 

Jon refused to ride south and aid Robb. 

Jon refused to avenge the man who raised him as his own boy. 

Jon refused to avenge his brother. 

His past decisions came back to him, crashing into Jon with the weight of a warhammer. He understood Val better now. An eerie sense of calm suddenly flushed over him. His anger simmered beneath the surface, but it did not rage like a bonfire anymore. When he spoke, his voice was measured. 

"You will make for Skagos and do your damnedest to find my young cousin, Rickon Stark. Today, as you ride out, it will be the only thing on your mind." 

Val scoffed. "I'm not one of your kneelers to-" 

"And when you've completed your task." Jon cut her off sharply. "You will ride north to the Gift. You will offer leadership and support to the free folk there and do whatever is in your power to assist the Night's Watch." Her lips opened to speak up, but again, Jon did not allow her. The next words were a verdict. "If I ever see you again in the North, I will have you beheaded for murder." 

They stared at each other for a long time, but Val relented finally and closed her eyes, lightly swaying her head from side to side, as if disappointed. When she opened them, her eyes reflected the same pain she had earlier. "Very well then, King Crow." As she passed him, Val muttered a few words. "We do what we must, Jon. Never forget that. I wish you good fortunes in the coming days. You'll need it." 

With that, Val left him in the godswood. He could not yet bring himself to leave the sanctuary of this place, so he said down and did what he was infamous for. 

Brooding. 

Jon brooded when Satin found him sitting on a frost-covered log, his grey eyes burning a hole into the snow. Brooded when he was preparing his black destrier for the journey south. Brooded when he swung himself into his saddle and kicked his horse into action. 

Brooded all the way down the kingsroad towards White Harbour. 


	8. Chapter 8

** _SANSA_ **

Since the dawn of her girlhood, Sansa had been an early riser, always the first to bath, dress and preen before the crack of day came peering through her window like a cackling rooster. There was a certain nostalgia to it, waking up earlier than most denizens of the Gates. The earliest birds always got the worms, Septa Mordane cited a lifetime ago. 

As she grew up from a dreamy young girl to a woman who had seen the ugliest parts of the world, the habit of waking up early never died. Sansa was always one of the first to rise from her slumber, request hot water from her handmaidens so she could wash and then dress herself meticulously in pretty garbs and furs she wished to wear that day. 

Sometimes, it took her hours before Sansa was finally pleased with herself; grooming until she looked immaculate was her favourite part of the morn. She relished in it like it was a sin she could not keep herself from committing. It was the only part of day where she had the chance to spent time on herself, peace and quiet lingering around her like a warm cloak. 

It was a habit she had picked up from her lady mother. Catelyn Stark had always been awake earlier than her diligent lord husband, a trait she made sure was passed down on Sansa too. 

Now, she made good use of her betimes wont. 

Jon was about to arrive somewhere today and the Gates of the Moon had to be present at its best in her opinion. 

The exchange of letters between them were not frequent, but nevertheless, each time a new missive landed inside the rookery of the Gates, a fluttery feeling erupted inside Sansa's stomach. Once every fortnight, Sansa would receive a missive penned by the King in the North telling of his travels, always delivered by the same large raven. One of her answers even mentioned the bird, and Jon revealed that its name was Mormont, named after the Lord Commander before Jon. Sansa took to calling the raven Mormont since then. 

Five days ago, Jon had made land at one of the small ports of the Fingers and immediately rode for Coldwater Burn, the seat of House Coldwater. He would rest a day there, dined and wined by Lord Coldwater and his kin, and then make his way further into the Vale, eventually coming to the Gates of the Moon at the end of a sennight's turn. 

As soon as Jon arrived at Coldwater, Sansa had asked Mya to meet Jon's retinue and assist them in ascending and traversing the slender mountain paths. Her dear friend hopped on her mule and told her not to fret, that her cousin would be in good hands. Now, five days later, they were due to arrive any moment now. A rider holding a Stark banner had already galloped ahead to inform Sansa of their imminent arrival. 

The sight of that piece of cloth, the snarling grey direwolf on a field of white, made her heart stutter, a lump forming in her throat. For years, Sansa dreamt of that sigil many times. Dreamt of Stark men-at-arms marching upon King's Landing and holding her family's banner, to free her of her cage. In a way, her dream was about to be fulfilled. While not a prisoner, Sansa felt stuck in the Vale regardless. Shackled by some queer sense of duty that Sansa had started to develop towards Sweetrobin and the rest of the Vale nobility. 

The Vale itself was not thrilled at all to hear of Jon's march towards the Gates. The general consensus was mistrust towards him; for whatever reason would the King in the North go so strenuously out of his way and travel the mountainous paths which the Vale was notorious for? The nobles insistently neglected to think that maybe Jon came for _ her. _

Some nobles even suggested to bar Jon entrance, to keep him at Coldwater Burn and deny him further passage, but she had nipped that foolish notion in the bud as soon as it reared its head. As head of the Lords Declarant,even if symbolic, Sansa still wielded authority. In no way would she allow this utter insult. 

Lord Yohn Royce had been silent on the matter, keeping his cards to himself until the right moment revealed itself. It was a delicate matter after all. Sometimes, keeping silent was more advantageous than joining the herd in their frantic bleating. 

"Good morning, sweetling." Sansa smiled openly at Robert, who was still abed, clutching the edges of his sheets tightly to his chin. His watery eyes fluttered a few times, sleep still clogging his brown eyes. Sansa came to sit on his bed and caressed his red cheek, earning her a whimper and a few sniffs. 

"I don't want to leave my bed..." His fragile voice was especially high-pitched and weak, causing Sansa to worry her lip. 

"Are you unwell, my lord? Does anything hurt?" 

Robert squirmed at the question. "My tummy. It's my tummy. I feel it bubble and groan..." 

Sansa placed a careful hand atop Robert's stomach, rubbing it. "Are you perhaps hungry? It might be that you haven't had breakfast yet?" 

"No..." A whiny little noise left his mouth. "I don't want anything..." 

"Sweetling, it might help you with your ach-" 

"I said I don't want anything!" 

Sansa frowned disapprovingly at the shriek her lordly cousin gave, taking her hand back. "All right, then. I'll go and ask for Maester Coleman. Mayhaps he has a solution for your maladies." 

As Sansa made to stand up, Robert stopped her "Wait...!" He sat up straighter, leaning against his pillows. Now, Sansa could see how red and flushed his face was, wet lines trailing down his nostrils, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He looked quite taken with illness. "Please, don't leave. My head hurts, my legs hurt. Everything hurts. I didn't mean to yell, Sansa...I-I'm sorry..." 

It was the first time Sansa heard her haughty little cousin apologies for his outbursts. It shook her, worry making her pinch her face. Whatever affliction Sweetrobin was suffering, it rendered his spoilt behaviour to a low point. It both gladdened and worried Sansa deeply. 

"Would you please stay?" He continued to plead. "I could fetch Gretchel and tell her to bring us lemon cakes. You like lemon cakes, right? We can have lemon cakes and black berry pies and sweet milk. Mayhaps the cooks can bake us apple pies too. We can play Come-Into-My-Castle and tell stories all day long..." Robert whispered softly, those brown eyes of his wide and terrified as he stared at Sansa, pleading not to leave the confines of his bedchamber, looking about as if any moment now, a monster would crawl out from beneath his bed and drag him to his nightmares. 

More than once, Sansa had to remind herself to be kind and patient towards little Robert. That her cousin was only a small child, a parentless boy with nobody to cling on, nobody who could offer him the comfort a sickly young child so desperately sought. Rickon came to mind then, wild little Rickon with his breathless laughter and toothy grins, sharp and fast as an arrow. 

He was wild even when he came to this world, a screaming little pup kicking his legs in protest at the loss of his mother's warmth, but as the years stretched on, Rickon wanted less to be around his mother and more around his brothers, all day long trailing behind Robb and Jon's heels, trying to catch up. 

Robert had no older siblings to look up to. He came alone to this world, father and mother consumed by duty and delusions respectively. For him to desperately hold on to the little bit of comfort the world gave him, as if his life depended on it, should not have come as a surprise. 

Sansa knew the kindness of a good father and the love of a fair mother. Lord Jon Arryn had thrown himself too deep into his task as Hand of the King, while Aunt Lysa gazed into an abyss for too long and lost sight on what was most important in her life. As much as she did not want to, Sansa had to make up for it a little. 

_ Mother Above, give me strength and patience. _

"Very well then, my lord." Sansa kissed his forehead, inching closer so she could lie beside him. She made sure he stayed beneath the warmth of his sheets while Sansa remained on top of them. Her cousin likely suffered from a strong case of the flu. Already, Sansa put herself into exposure to it, and she wanted to dam in the possibility as much as she could. 

"Would you tell me a story?" Robert asked. 

Sansa pondered for a minute. The story of the Falcon Knight had come to bore her to tears. By now, she must have sung that tale a hundred times already. "What about the Two White Wolves?" 

"Which story is that?" While her cousin was not particularly happy to hear new tales, his sickly disposition made him oddly pliant. Robert's frail little body was content beneath his sheets, no twitches showing his discomfort. That meant he was open to new things for now. 

"It's the story of two wolves taking back their den from a pack of traitorous hounds..." 

It took her some time, but Robert dozed off as Sansa went deeper into her impromptu story. Her little lord slept peacefully as Sansa finished her story with the wolves who reclaimed their home. She stood up from his bed, taking extra care to caress his face with a cloth in order to wipe off the beads of sweat rolling down his sour face before she would go about her own duties. The door opened then, Gretchel walking in with a lamp in hand. 

"The Lord of the Eyrie is unwell, Gretchel. I fear the flu has claimed him. Inform the maester of his lord's condition. He needs to keep Robert's warmth and water high." 

"Of course, Lady Regent." The elderly woman walked up with a limp, crippled on one side of her hip, replacing Sweetrobin's chamber pot with a fresh one. Sansa was about to leave them, but Gretchel poised a question, staying her feet. "Milady, you forgot something." 

Sansa turned just to see how Robert's oldest servant held out a hairpin. It was a silver piece, pointy and glinting, slender as a needle. Its most striking feature was the head of a wolf at the end. She did not remember putting it inside her hair. 

"Thank you, Gretchel." Sansa said in any case, putting the pin inside the braid of her hair. 

The old woman gave her a close-lipped smile, nodding a little. "Maddy told me you are a wolf child. A daughter of the Starks. She hasn't stopped blathering about the royal visit from the North. I remember many tales of the yore kings of ice and snow." 

"Were they good stories?" Sansa inquired. 

Old retchel sniffed. "The Kings of Winter were strong and grim lords, nothing like you would hear from valiant knights like Florian and Artys the Falcon. Pretty tales hide an ugly secret. I preferred the older stories. They taught us lessons. They warned us. Songs only fuel our fantasies. The world is not a fantasy, milady." 

Sansa's eyes stared for a moment at Gretchel's wrinkly old face. If there was ever a living example of the Crone, she would be standing in front of her. She held up an oil lamp, the roles and ridges of her wrinkles accentuated through the flickering light provided by the fireflies entrapped inside it. Wisdom and shrewdness poured out of her. 

Part of Sansa felt like she was being ridiculed by those beady little eyes, as if they knew of the naivety that once coloured her and what kinds of misery it all brought to her life. How she had been once a stupid girl whose head was filled with songs and stories. 

_ Porcelain, ivory, steel. My mistakes helped strengthening me. I learnt the truth of the world the hard way. _

Gretchel merely kept looking on, the darkness in her eyes never lighting up. "Go on now, child. You have a great many thing to do." 

Unnerved, Sansa took her leave from Robert's chambers, mulling over Gretchel's words for a bit before shaking her head and trying to focus on other matters. For a moment, Sansa chided herself for inwardly questioning the choices she made a gullible child. These few moons, Sansa had started to rebuilt her confidence. _ Porcelain, ivory, steel. _ It would not do to revert back to that. 

The castle was slowly awakening as well, servants appearing and disappearing like mice in the long corridors. The preparations for Jon's arrival were more or less completed. They had stocked up on ale, mead, wine, salted pork and venison, mutton stew, bread, a plethora of sweet and sour fruits and a thousand other food wares proper for a feast. 

Sansa had taken inspiration from the time King Robert Baratheon had come to visit Winterfell all those years back. Her mother had prepared the castle for a royal visit a few days ahead of schedule, painstakingly arranging everything, from reparations to stocks. 

With no other source of precedence to emulate, Sansa tried her hardest to remember what kind of affairs her mother arranged. Myranda and Lord Nestor both awed at the result of Sansa's work. Never had the Gates looked so...regal before, worthy of a king's note. 

In order to make their home fit for a king's visit, Sansa had to pull out all the tricks she had up her sleeve. Sansa thought she never had to use the knowledge. Now, five years later, Sansa would come to host her own king, her brother-turned-cousin no less. 

Walking down the corridors, Sansa greeted Robert's Winged Knights, watching as they came out of their barrack one by one, a coterie of men lad in clattering armour with the same sheen as freshly hewn moonstones. Ser Nestor Templeton and Ser Jasper Redfort were in the middle of a jesting contest before they took note of her. 

"Your Grace! Good morrow to you! As always, you look radiant as ever!" Ser Jasper gave a winning smile. "Shame your beauty is lost on this day. The clouds above are eerie and grey. The wind also smells of rain. We're going to have a heavy pouring on our hands." 

Ser Isembard nodded gravely. "The mountain passes might turn muddy if the rainfall is especially heavy. I hope Mya arrives with your royal cousin before that misfortune falls upon them." 

"That reminds me..." Ser Roland smirked. "Do you reckon Jon Snow is a capable swordsman? We spoke about it at length last night. I heard quite the pretty tales about this bastard king. The White Wolf, they call this Northman, a man with few equals in the North. Bollocks, if you ask me. I can't wait to test my steel against his." 

Sansa's frown was deep and offended, not liking in the least how he sounded so condescending, but before she could voice her disapproval over Roland, someone else spoke up. 

"Careful now, Waynwood. Jon _ Stark _retook Winterfell with an army twice as small as that of his enemy. You would do well to remember that. It also won't do to show discourtesy in front of Her Grace Princess Sansa. Speak ill of one, and you might speak ill of them all." Ser Godric chided, but Roland sneered further. 

Lady Anya's grandson waved his hand, dismissive. "The tales around him must be dramatized. How can a northerner possibly compare to an anointed knight? And tales about Ramsay Snow's stupidity even reached us here in the Vale. It must have been such a hard task to put down a rabid dog the likes of him." 

"Roland, stop this. You're speaking ill of a king, Princess Sansa's cousin no less. Show some humility." Jasper looked between herself and Roland nervously, no doubt expecting outrage on her side, which was right of him to do so. 

"He's no king of mine." 

"Then who is...?" 

Myranda came strutting, rounding a corner, her lips pulled into a shrewd little smile. 

Ser Roland answered the smirk with his own. "The dragons in the east are stirring. Haven't you heard? King Aegon and Queen Daenerys have taken Slaver's Bay for their own. My grandmother says they are slowly turning their sight on Westeros, now that they've finished liberating that shithole. The Targaryens are bent on taking back what is theirs. With three dragons and the best army in the world." 

"You call the Targaryen claimants your king and queen?" Myranda simpered as she came to stand in front of them all. 

"It were the dragons we bowed to." Roland raised his chin proudly. "The Lannisters are nothing but grasping fools and the Baratheons are all dead. They got what was coming to them. Westeros will once again fall under the rule of House Targaryen. We Waynwoods have always been staunch supporters of House Targaryen. Once they sit the Iron Throne, we will be the first to declare our support. And the first to enjoy the reward." 

"Will you now?" Myranda chuckled. She stepped closer, invading Roland's space. "You sound so foolish, it's almost adorable." The lines on Roland's face twisted, outraged. Myranda silenced him with a finger. "House Waynwood is nothing but an indebted family. Schemers and gamblers, all of you. And even there, your family falls through pathetically. Lady Waynwood made the wrong gamble when she agreed to have her debts bought and betroth Harrold Hardyng to late Lord Petyr's bastard Alayne Stone. Now, she has to pay the price for her gambit." 

"What are you talking about?" Roland ground his teeth. 

Myranda backed away, smiling. "Your family owed my family a great debt. My betrothal to Harry was one condition for waiving it. Your fealty was another. House Waynwood is beholden to us now. What we decide, you will agree without question." Her smile turned as sharp as a knife. "In essence, you're nothing but loyal dogs now. Dogs we purchased at a bargain!" 

"Why you filthy little..." 

"Enough!" Ser Ronnel Sunderland finally spoke, having been silent all this time. His large hand grasped Roland's shoulder and yanked him back. "Enough of this. You're failing your oath of chivalry, good ser." 

Ronnel Sunderland was the largest of the knights. His command purely came from his physical superiority. He was like a mountain amongst hills, towering between the likes of Roland and Godric. 

Jasper Redfort gestured for his brothers to follow him out, but not before he parted with an apologetic look on his face. 

"Targaryen loyalists still exist these days?" Sansa wondered as Myranda leaned against a draped wall, arms behind her back. She looked resplendent today, blooming in her emerald dress like a flower in spring. 

As the cold months kept passing, Myranda began to lose some of her redundant weight. Her clothes had begun to loosen, corsets and stockings no longer fitting properly. On one occasion, Myranda had even asked for Sansa's assistance in designing new clothes better fit for her stature. 

Whereas the first time Sansa had met Myranda, a buxom lady with full curves and a sturdy body, she now looked slender and fit. The fat across her face had also thinned, giving way to show off her pretty cheekbones and small mouth. She no longer looked round and superfluous, but carved and shapely. One thing remained, however. She was still enjoying the impressive size of her bust. The coming of early winter winds had been kind to her. Heads everywhere turned back to look at her. Myranda found it so thrilling. 

"The houses of Westeros are in a pinch. The last few years have been nothing but war and famine. King Robert's death, Lord Eddard's execution, Stannis' bid for the Iron Throne and the Lannisters' decline of power has left the Seven Kingdoms scarred and bleeding. Roland Waynwood has the right of it, in a way. The realms are tired of fighting. They want peace." 

"The Vale hasn't even taken part in any wars." Sansa pointed out. 

Myranda was quick with her answer "That doesn't mean we don't fear its imminence. War is inevitable. One of these days, we will join one side or the other." 

"And what side will you choose?" Sansa came to stand next to her friend. 

Myranda shrugged, smiling sideways. "That's not really what a lady is ought to ask, Your Grace. The art of war is not an art women are blessed with. We leave such...bloody occupations to our righteous lord fathers and lord husbands." 

"Is that disdain I hear in your voice, dear Randa?" Sansa pushed herself off the wall and straightened the crinkles in her grey dress with a hand. "I'm not envious of men in that regard, either. I mislike war and fighting. It brought me nothing but suffering. It _ brings _only suffering." 

The War of the Five Kings was about the sanctity of honour and justice. Robb died for an honourable cause, Stannis fought for what was rightfully his he thought, and the Lannisters still cling to whatever security the Iron Throne brings to them after the rot beneath their golden skin cracked through. 

That is what the songs would tell people one day. They would never tell about the suffering of innocent sisters or the murder and rape of helpless commoners not wanting to have anything to do with the game high lords loved to play. 

"You are not wrong, Sansa. I too disdain war." Myranda smiled lightly, but it failed to reach her eyes. "Your family and mine both suffered underneath House Targaryen's thumb. The Lannisters haven't been much different either. I think it's safe to say that we hold both houses in poor regards. I'd rather not name either of them my liege lord." 

The implications of her words lingered in the air as Myranda excused herself, needing to find her father. Sansa stood alone in the corridor, pondering on her own before the balls of her feet dragged her away towards someplace else, no direction in her itinerary. She walked and walked, passing through halls filled with paintings of nameless lords, large tapestries and elongated windows made of stained glass. The fluorescent light provided by the stained glass attracted her note. 

Peering outside, Sansa spotted the slow flickering of snowflakes dangling down the abyss, the clouds above grey and somber. _ Jasper was wrong, it's not rain, but snow that will grace us. _

She took a seat on the sill and gazed outside, letting herself watch with fixed attention how the snow tumbled down. The Gates of the Moon was filled with the smell of an upcoming feast. By now, Sansa was certain the cooks had arisen from their slumber and started preparing the various meals for the King in the North and his entourage. 

Jon wrote to her that he would be escorted by little more than a hundred men. Combined with the Vale nobles, the Gates of the Moon would shelter around two hundred guests. Winterfell had been visited by almost five hundred the day King Robert came to ask Father as his Lord Hand. 

Sansa pressed her forehead against the chilled glass, eyes roaming over the lands, narrowing her gaze at the road leading into the Vale proper. She had so much to think about, but all of her thoughts gradually took a place in the back of her mind in favour of one other thought. As Sansa started wondering more and more about Jon, thoughts of dragons singing, the scourge of war, scheming lords and sickly boys left her mind. She only remembered the boy who was her bastard brother once upon a time. 

The boy who was never truly hers to call brother, in both name and blood. 

_ Did he grow taller? He had always been taller than Robb, but not as tall as Theon. Is he still the same as all those years ago? Still reluctant to smile? Still solemn and sullen and silent? Withdrawn and observant still? Would he even recognize me? _

Sansa's shoulders slouched as she leaned into the stained glass more. The thought of Jon not recognizing her was about to break her heart, but upon further thought, it would not be an insult necessarily, even if it disheartened her so. It had been so long since she had seen Jon. Five years, almost. Half as long as they had spent time together, estranged and distant towards one another as they were. 

_ Would I even recognize him? _

Those thoughts were saddening. Sansa refused to be sad today. Today was not a day for sadness. Sansa resolved not think about such things further. Even if Jon failed to see the girl he once called sister and not recognize her for who she was, Sansa would not allow herself to be disheartened. 

Their time apart had made them greater strangers than they had ever been to the other. 

Maybe, this was a time of reacquainting. 

So, she started thinking about others things, like his face, or his height again. Would he be as tall as Lady Brienne? She doubted it. Her sworn shield was taller than a woman had any right to be, at least according to the knights around. She even towered above Ser Jaime Lann- 

Sansa jolted up, panickily realizing something. 

By the Seven...Jaime Lannister was here still. The blond-haired knight's existence had completely eluded her thanks to his evasive behaviour and proclivity to remain inside his chambers and brood all day. What would Jon think of her having a Lannister amidst her ranks? 

With a hurried jump, Sansa took off from the windowsill and strode to where she knew Ser Jaime was. Knocking at his door, Sansa waited for him to answer. He gave none. Again, she tried, and again, she was met with silence. Sansa bit her lip. _ Where is he? _

Seeing that she would not make much progress standing here idly, Sansa had a different destination to go to. Lady Brienne's quarters were not far from Ser Jaime's. She and Podrick shared a chamber, seeing as the young boy had taken the role of a squire to her, a most unusual sight to be sure. 

Without preamble, Sansa entered the room, earning her a clatter of noise. Podrick was in the middle of helping Brienne into her cuirass before he jerked his head behind him. 

"Princess Sansa! I was just about done helping the Lady Brienne!" Podrick stammered, finishing the last piece into place and stepping back. 

"Is something the matter, my princess?" Brienne said as she fully turned to face Sansa. 

"Podrick, Brienne, I must ask where Ser Jaime is." She was a little breathless from her run, chest heaving softly. 

"He's not in his chambers?" Brienne responded with a serious face as Sansa shook her head. "That is odd indeed. Jaime never leaves the confines of his quarters. Not unless I accompany him." 

"We must find him. At once." Sansa said, already making for the door. 

"Your Grace? What's the matter? You seem unsettled." Podrick inquired as he took his sword-belt and fastened to his waist. 

Her hand came to rest on the doorknob. "I need to see the ser about something of great import. It cannot wait." 

Both squire and lady shared a brief look, but soon, they came to stand before her and nodded. Sansa knew there were surely more than a few questions poised on the tip of their tongues. She would answer them later. 

And as she opened the door, she was met with a young boy, a Lynderly son Lord Yohn had taken as a page into the Arryn court. 

"Your Grace, we've received word of another rider." He apprised quickly. "The King in the North is merely an hour away from the Gates. He'll be here any moment now." 

The air was sucked out of her lungs at hearing the news. Her tongue laid heavy in the cavern of her mouth, words that she wished to say at the tip but failing to come out. Eventually, through great effort, she aligned her back and set her shoulders, poised and calm again. 

"Ready the castle. I want everyone ready to greet the King in the North within the hour. When you're done, head to Maester Coleman and ask him if Lord Robert is healthy enough to attend as well." The boy bowed and sped off, given a task to execute. Sansa turned to Brienne. "I want you to find Ser Jaime and keep him away from the King in the North, for now at least. Until I've properly spoken to Jon and explained why he is here, under no circumstance must he be found wandering unsupervised. It might unnecessarily bring about his wrath to see a Lannister walk around freely as he wishes." 

Brienne nodded curtly. "Your will is my command, Your Grace." 

They all dispersed towards their destinations. Sansa quickly made way to the great hall, where every high lord and lady mingled in the meantime of waiting for Jon. When she entered, she promptly informed them all of the news, followed by a polite request to ready themselves. Her answer was a sudden orchestra of murmurs and grumbles, the Vale nobles taking on their fur cloaks and hastily adding the last touches to their appearance. 

Sansa did not remain to oversee their preening, but left quickly for Sweetrobin's chambers, pushing inside to see Maester Coleman in the process of feeding the lordling the last bit of his sweet porridge. 

"How is Lord Robert?" 

Coleman's chains rattled as he came to place the bowl on top of a nightstand. "Your Grace was right about him. The flu has gripped him. Fear not, for the illness was not on the brink of severity. A daily dose of herbal tea and easy sustenance will cure him of his ailments soon." 

"Is his lordship strong enough to weather the world outside?" 

The only answer given to her was a short hum. "That depends entirely on Lord Robert." 

"What do you say, sweetling? Are you strong enough to come outside?" 

Robert shook her head. "It's too cold to be outside. I want to stay here, and I want you to stay here as well." 

Sansa dug her teeth into her bottom lip. "As much as I want to, I cannot. The King in the North is about arrive. Someone must welcome here into your castle." 

"Have Myranda do it! She likes to smile and strut like a peacock!" 

"My lord, King Jon is my family. I must welcome him here, for it's only proper for a lady. But Robert, I'm not sure if I'm brave enough to face a king. Kings are strong, but I'm merely a young girl." 

"Do you need me there to protect you?" Robert's eyes gleamed. He always liked to be told he was strong enough to protect pretty maidens. 

"Yes, my lord! Please, hold my hand as I speak to King Jon." 

It took little effort to cajole Sweetrobin into a proper set of clothes, ermine furs keeping his throat warm while a white bear pelt was draped over his sky-blue velvet doublet. Sansa needed Robert there, to represent the proper decorum for receiving a king. A small voice whispered to her that Jon may not care much about courtesy and ceremony at all. He may not, but Sansa did. To have Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, present would send a strong message towards the other Vale lords. 

Sansa had Robert's ear. 

She could ask of him a great many things. 

The commotion continued while Sansa and Robert ambled their way through, flanked on both sides by members of the Winged Knights. Ser Jasper walked in front, leading the way, Ser Godric and Ser Isembard to the sides. Roland was behind her, and for that, Sansa was glad. She had no desire to see his arrogant face. 

As they stepped outside the entrance of the Gates, cold blades came grazing down across her face, the white winds chafing across her cheeks. It felt amazing to feel her cheeks being kissed by snow, for it reminded her of the days back in the North. Days where she played in the snow with Lady and her siblings. Days where she stuck out her tongue and had a taste of her first winter. 

Already, she could smell the scent of winter coming. 

It reminded her so strongly of home. 

The entire courtyard was filled with men and women, high and lowborn alike, all there to catch a glimpse of the King in the North. Sansa was practically trembling from excitement, the tips of her fingers and toes tingling sweetly. She was about to be reunited with the only other Stark left in this world. 

_ Would it be so sweet as I've always dreamt of? _

As the last people came to join them in waiting for Jon's arrival, a heavy silence fell down upon them. She heard people cough and shuffle on their feet, faces bleak and drawn into vacant expressions, a stray dog barking before he was shushed. Sweetrobin started to squirm in his place, his soft little hand squeezing hers in a sign of anxiety. 

Myranda and her father Lord Nestor Royce were at her left, while the Lords Declarant were to her right, beginning with Lord Yohn Royce, then followed by Lady Anya Waynwood, Lord Benedar Belmore, Ser Symond Templeton, Lord Gilwood Hunder and lastly Lord Horton Redfort. It was an imposing gathering of the most powerful nobles of the Vale. Jon had attracted more than a few eyes. 

Sansa waited, her teeth set painfully, holding her breath the whole time. 

Then came the din of galloping hooves. 

Standard-bearers of various houses began to storm into the courtyard. Sansa immediately recognized the sigils of Houses Manderly, Hornwood, Whitehill, Forrester, Locke, Woolfield, Cerwyn, Dustin, Mormont and Ryswell. 

Their horses rode in with loud trots, kicking up the dust, snowflakes nestled in the collars of their fur. Sansa noticed Mya first, riding her favourite mule, a young man following behind her and pulling down his hood when they stopped. Jet-black fell down his face in ringlets. He was beautiful. Pretty as a black rose. 

"Is that your cousin behind Mya?" Myranda asked from the side, nudging her with a curious elbow. 

"I don't think so. Jon was never this handsome." Sansa replied back. While her memories were vague, Sansa would have remembered Jon if he had been remotely that handsome in the past. It was not as if he was homely or anything, Sansa just never paid him attention to his appearance much, truth be told. The young man looked too southron as well. Jon, if anything else, had always looked like a pureblood Northman. 

"Handsome? He's gorgeous!" Myranda piped through her teeth. "Looks at those eyelashes! It's nearly a crime for a man to have such luscious eyelashes! I nearly mistook him for a woman!" 

Sansa had to smother her titter with a hand pressed to her mouth. More people kept spilling inside, until a large white creature padded forth, its large head sniffing around, ears perked up. Sansa heard a hundred different panicked shouts, some even drawing their sword. Myranda at her sight gasped in shock. 

Sansa's breath hitched as well, but for a different reason. 

"Ghost...?" He must have heard her whisper, for the white direwolf began to break out into a run, pawing his way to Sansa, tongue lolling out excitedly. More shouts followed, but Sansa assured them with a raised hand. "He won't harm anyone, I assure you." 

Ghost stopped just before her, bumping his wet snout into her belly. Sansa could have cried then, wrapping her arms around his great skull, digging her fingers into the furs and inhaling his earthy scent greedily, drinking it all in like a parched woman, and Ghost the first source of water in days. 

_ Home...he smells so much like home. _

The sound of galloping stopped except for one. Sansa noticed through the pristine furs a black destrier cantering up, his rider still holding up his hood. He grabbed the hems of his hood and lowered it. 

Something inside Sansa broke at the sight. 

A long face, dark brown hair tied back, a rugged beard gracing his windburnt cheeks, eyes as sharp as castle-forged steel. There was no mistake. 

_ He looks so much like Father now. _

Gods, it stung to be reminded of her father like this. Her mother's fears had been right. Jon Snow did look the most like a Stark. A Stark of old. 

A Stark during the Age of Heroes. 

Sansa released her grip on Ghost and watched how he returned to his master's side, a loyal white shadow. Taking her place back besides Myranda, Sansa waited for Jon to step down. 

The horse came to a halt in the middle of the courtyard and Jon stepped down gracefully from his black destrier, swinging a leg over it and coming down on his feet with the ease of a cat. Like this, Sansa could see how much he had grown into a tall and strapping young man. 

Gone were his gangly limbs, replaced with thick cords of muscle, his posture confident, straight and strong, not a speck of uncertainty to be found. Jon had grown into his body, judging by the way his garbs fit him so well. His face had also sharpened, innocence or youthfulness pecked clean, nowhere to be found there. Only a strong sense of authority and austerity remained. There was a gauntness to him that worried Sansa, but then again, it also seemed appropriate. A hundred burdens had come to rest on his shoulders. Kingship had done a number on him, Sansa reckoned. 

White furs and grey leathers coloured him handsomely, however. One of the few things Sansa did know to associate with Jon Snow was his affection for the colour black. Now, there was not a single part of him that donned the colour. 

"By the Seven, King Jon looks certainly...formidable." Myranda said in a low voice thick with approval. "Those eyes of his could freeze the Wall ten times over." 

The white crystals nestled in his hair and beard gave him an almost mythical appearance, a creature of fairy tales and songs and folktales sung by maidens and bards, but the sword at his side told everyone that nothing was farther from the truth. He was real and strong. Jon looked every inch a northern lord, nay, every inch a northern king. 

A true son of the North. 

For a while, he observed his surroundings keenly, a hand buried in Ghost's furs as those Stark eyes of his committed to memory every detail; from the people to the parapets, from the white ground to the dark sky. Nothing escaped his notice. 

Until Jon's eyes settled on her. 

Her spine tingled at the notice. 

Nothing ever caused her to so strongly reel back and hide. 

They locked eyes, blue meeting grey. For how long, Sansa knew not, It could have been ten seconds or ten thousand years, the result was the same. Sansa could not tear her eyes away, as much as she tried. An invisible power kept her rooted in place. It kept her eyes wide open and allowed this precious stream of unspoken things ebb and flow. Her knees started to grow weak the nearer Jon came. He was slow in his approach, extending the torturous swirling inside her guts. Every word she wanted to say wilted away. 

And because she knew not what else to do, instincts kicked in. Courtesies had always been her armour, so when Jon skid to a halt right before her, Sansa curtsied as deeply and charmingly as she could, followed with a soft. "Your Grace..." 

To her great surprise, the lords and ladies of the Vale followed her cue and bowed as well. Jon was not their king. Were they as daunted by his arrival as she was? 

Her knees held the ground a lingering moment, the skirt of her dress getting wet from the snow. Should she rise, or wait for Jon's decree? 

None of those happened either, because right in front of her, Jon took a knee as well. Sansa heard him take off his black mole's leather gloves, the feel of hands cupping her cheeks and forcing her to look up in alarm. 

Again, she gazed into those deep pools of grey, enchanted by how soulful Jon's eyes looked, nearly losing herself in them. 

"You, of all people, shouldn't bow to me." 

It was as if the heavens opened by the force of a thousand prayers. Jon said her name so gently, so softly, her eyes threatened to well up. 

They rose together, Jon's hands still holding her cheeks she was sure were now red as spring apples. Jon scrunched his brows, concentrating with great strain, mapping even the smallest intricacies of her face. It was such an intimate gesture, warmth coiled up inside her veins. 

But as quickly as it flowed, it suddenly froze the moment something changed in Jon's expression. It was brief, a split second of shifting, but Sansa noticed it all the same. She had grown apt in studying people. 

Jon had tried to find something in her face, almost desperate in his search, his fingers tracing the lines of her cheekbones like she was a puzzle he was having qualms understanding. When he failed, his shoulders sagged, eyes cast down. Sansa clearly understood what that meant. 

The warmth of his hands disappeared as he took a step back, smiling wanly. 

"It's good to see you again, Sansa." 

Then he passed her and went to stand before the rest of the Vale nobles, greeting Robert and Lord Nestor Royce. 

Were it not for the fact that her heart had dropped all the way down to her feet, pinning her to her place like a crucifix, Sansa might have remembered her courtesies and taken her place next to him, introducing all the noteworthy nobles of the Vale like a proper lady of the castle. 

Yet, she could not do so, because right now, utter defeat threatened to swallow her whole. 

Never in her greatest fears would Sansa have ever expected Jon to be so disappointed in meeting her. 

For it was exactly that what Jon must have felt the moment they reunited. 

Complete and utter disappointment. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick request. This might sound a little lazy on my part, but if you notice anything off, be it grammar or spelling, could you perhaps point that out for me? Not specifically where and what, but after I 'proofread' my docs, and then days later I find utterly stupid errors like 'there' 'their' or weird sentence structuring etc, I get so embarrassed with myself. I know I know, it sounds irrational....but I can't help quirks like those.

_ **JON** _

"You can't have her! Sansa belongs here! With me! I won't allow her to leave!" 

Lord Robert Arryn had to contest with the shouting of at least a dozen other noblemen, all of them raising their shrill voices to show how much they protested at the idea of Sansa leaving the Vale. The household guards of the Gates of the Moon were stationed like a sky-blue ring of chain and steel around their lord, protecting him from whatever threats he must have had perceived from Jon. 

_ He acts as if I'm about to take away his favourite doll. _

The lordling squeezed his hands into tight little fists, slamming them on the armrest of his throne petulantly. It was clear to Jon that the young boy never suffered a disciplinary lesson. 

"I'll make you fly if you ask that one more time!" 

Lady Alysane Mormont and Ser Wylis Manderly were close to drawing their swords, standing vigil at Jon's sides while he sat on a wood-carved chair across the Lord of the Eyrie. Longclaw lay over his lap, a clear sign that Jon was on his guard too. 

Satin and he came to think that bringing along a variety of northern nobles would be helpful. To fully represent the North as a unified front rather than coming alone was better. It would send a more confident message, showing that the King in the North came from a position of strength. The lords of the Vale acknowledged the gesture for what it was and said little about it. 

After all, Jon and his cohort were armed to the teeth. Other people might have gotten nervous seeing such an armed entourage, but it was also a clear sign that Jon wanted protection around him. Every leader had that prerogative. The North remembered what happened to their previous king. 

"The impudent little rascal...how dare he threaten Your Grace!" Wylis whispered heatedly into his ear. "This was a mistake, my lord. We shouldn't have bothered with them. Your cousin is not worth starting a feud with the Arryns, let alone your life! It's still not too late to turn heel and ride back for the North. We have much to do still." 

"Ser Wylis is right, my king." Alysane agreed. "On the morrow, we can be on our way and-" 

Jon heard enough, raising his hand to halt any of their verbal advance. He came here for a purpose, and Jon would see to it that that purpose was completed. 

Robert Arryn sat on his wood throne, a construction built on a dais, arched windows behind him while the torches on the wall hang on iron sconces. Lord Arryn's protectors were not far, either standing at his sides or somewhere near the walls. 

Jon's eyes flickered to the right, beside him standing the person for which he had travelled leagues upon leagues, quiet as the sea. The woman he came for. The last living child of Uncle Ned. 

Sansa Stark herself. 

By the old gods and the new, Jon could not even bring himself to look at her for too long. 

Her presence both pained and heartened Jon. 

Lord Coldwater did his name justice, for he was cold and aloof most of the time Jon roamed his halls. The courtesies extended to him were threadbare, enough not to incite insult. Not that Jon cared much. The disdain was felt mutually. He did not like how the plump old man looked at him, as if he was a rusty nail in his boot. A nail he very much liked to remove. 

Mistrust had urged Jon to cut his stay as short as he could. He only remained a day at Coldwater Burn, heedful to only eat and drink what he needed and not indulge in finer luxuries. 

Then, the northern retinue packed up on a dark morn and headed towards the Vale proper, towards the Arryn court residing at the Gates of the Moon. Along the road, someone riding a mule called Mya Stone crossed their paths, a tall young woman with familiar eyes and hair. She was someone who claimed to be a close friend to the Lady Regent Sansa Stark. Apparently, it was at Sansa's behest that Mya rode out and come to guide them through the narrow paths of these mountainous lands. After three gruelling days of weathering harsh winds and traitorous roads, they made it to the Gates of the Moon in one piece. 

And then there she stood, at the head of a column of high lords and ladies, tall and elegant as a weirwood tree, red-cheeked and wide-eyed, her northern braid swept in the wind. The moment Jon stepped into the courtyard, his eyes caught the girl, the _ woman _, swathed in the colours of House Stark, her graceful gown made of soft grey wools while a white ermine fur collar surrounded her sculpted face, a lick of blue across the bodice to show deference to her cousin. 

His half-sister, _ cousin, _ was a true vision to behold. 

A vision Jon could not reconcile himself with. 

She did not resemble the girl in his mind, he came to see with a pang in his chest. Vague as it was, Jon had some recollection of how Sansa looked like before the day their paths shunted. The girl he remembered was starry-eyed and smiling, singing a hundred songs after each other. The person who stood before him was not a girl. A woman was poised before him, sharp and straight, regal as a lady and commanding the attention of everyone around her with utter ease, even his. 

He may have been completely awestruck by her, but that was not what he was searching for. Gods, Jon would be a liar if he said it did not pain him so unbearably that this reunion elicited little to nothing out of his soul. 

The moment Jon saw Sansa again, after all those years, he hoped something inside him would churn and twist. Jon hoped those vicious hooks dug inside his flesh would finally rent out, tearing memories and feelings out of him that remained buried beneath a hundred layers of darkness. 

Yet, that did not happen. Instead, it was as if he had dwelled inside a deep cavern for too long, no longer knowing what light looked or felt like, and when Sansa revealed herself to him, he was blinded by the intensity of her warm presence. She was a maiden as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair. 

Something he could not discern caused his stomach to roll violently. 

Here he was, the King in the North and Lord of Winterfell, nothing but a legitimized bastard, while a trueborn claimant, a rightful heir to the Crown of Winter stood before him. 

He felt like a filthy thief. 

_ I've always feared this day would come. You're nothing but a disgrace, a damned usurper... _

And then there she was, the trueborn heir of Winterfell, in all her glory. 

The image stilled burnt inside his mind like a rising sun on a cold midwinter day. 

Jon made no mistake, he had been always aware that he was not, and never had been, the rightful ruler of the North. He was an interim, the keeper of a crown that was as much his as Winterfell was. When Lord Manderly brought up Rickon, the seed of doubt was there already, but everything out of sight could be pushed out of mind. 

But now, the truth looked at him straight in the eye, and it had an unmistakable voice. 

The voice resonated deep, strong and femininely, the voice of a red-haired lady with blue eyes as strikingly similar as Sansa's, the lady who haunted him since he knew what the word bastard meant. 

Bitter anger coated the slope of his tongue, an irrational bitterness that was hard to swallow. Not aimed towards Sansa, no, gods no. It was not her fault, nor her responsibility to miraculously make his memories return to him or be a balm to his tormented soul. 

Jon was bitter towards himself. 

Had death stolen something more of him than his memories? Was his ability to act like a proper man also robbed? For it was normal to want to embrace someone you missed dearly, to hold their face with care and gaze into their eyes until you had your fill. To try to make up for lost time with soft gestures and small words and little touches. 

Those urges filled Jon, but something powerful held him back. 

And to his utter frustration, he knew not what that was. 

Jon was beside himself. 

"My lords! My lords! Cease this pointless squabbling." A man wearing bronze armour spoke up with authority. The runes across the armour and the fact that it was made of bronze told Jon enough. This man was Bronze Yohn himself, a fierce warrior of renown. "His Grace just finished a most tiring journey, I'm sure. Our gracious Lady Regent prepared a feast for us all. It would be an insult to see all that effort go to waste. We shall continue this discussion another time." 

"Lord Royce is right." It was the first time Sansa said something. Jon did not pay much note before, but now, he could hear the familiar softness in her voice, how much it rang like the chiming bells of Winterfell. At least her voice had not changed much. He wondered if she still sang beautifully. "The castle is yours, Your Grace. We have servants and chambers ready for you. If you wish to wash up before the feast, the servants are more than willing to assist you in your wishes." 

As she spoke politely, _ starkly _, Sansa only deigned him the barest moment of her regard, blue eyes meeting his own grey ones for just a second. 

Jon did not allow that to bother him. 

Sansa, the one who escorted Jon and the rest of his guard across the mountainous paths and another young woman then decided to take their leave and ambled out, Lord Arryn following their skirts like a little duckling. Not once did his eyes leave Sansa's form. The rest of the court dispersed as well soon after, congregating amongst each other while sending furtive glances his way. 

"Jon..." Satin said gently, resting his hand on Jon's shoulder as the last of the Vale nobles left. "Let's do as the princess says. I'm not sure about you, but I'm in dire need of a bath. Travelling is a dirty business." 

"Don't worry, Your Grace." Larence Snow, a recent addition to his retinue. "We'll be long gone before the southron smell suffocates us. The men are ready whenever you wish to give the order." 

His discomforts of being here must have been a plain sight. The south was no place for the Starks. It was a miracle that Sansa survived for so long. Jon inhaled the air even with great care. _ Daggers in the dark...remember, daggers in the dark... _

With that thought pestering him, Jon entered his designated room, took to his bath and started the rigorous process of scrubbing away the dirt of travel off his skin. All the while, he tried to forget the haunted glint in Sansa's eyes. 

* * *

"Surely, you jest!" 

"The Seven be my witness, my lord! The mule almost bit off his hand! Little Robert hasn't neared my mules after!" 

Satin and Mya shared soft titters as they exchanged stories. It was light-hearted and amiable. Something of a friendship had ignited between the two, a sight first seen while they scaled the lands up towards the Gates of the Moon. 

After taking an hour-long bath, washing up and making himself presentable for the occasion, Jon was escorted to the gathering hall by Mya Stone, who revealed herself as a good friend of Sansa. She was a chipper young woman, always a clever quip ready on her tongue, much to Satin's great amusement. 

As the words kept flowing between them, it came to light that Mya Stone was not just a bastard, she was a seed of the late King Robert. It made a lot of sense in hindsight, since the colour of her eyes and hair was very much Baratheon. 

Mya did look a little like Shireen. 

Satin and Mya parted from his sides and took perch on one of the tables below, among the lower born folks. Jon was of a mind to have that particularly foolish tradition done away with and ask his friend to sit with him, but he remembered himself quickly and held his peace. Legitimized bastard he may be, Jon was first and foremost a king. It could potentially insult the Lord of the Eyrie if Jon demanded Satin to remain at his side. 

Not that his friend gave it much mind. He seemed happy with Mya Stone. The least Jon could do was grant him some companionship, even if at the cost of his own comfort. 

Jon took the seat closest to Robert Arryn, the place of honour, and proceeded to enjoy his meal as best as he could. When King Robert Baratheon had come to visit Winterfell, Ned Stark was forced by decorum to give up his seat for his liege lord, to show the greatest deference to King Robert's person. Jon cared not for the little elaborations decorum demanded, and Lord Arryn seemed to care for them even less. 

The Lord of the Eyrie was a disgruntled little boy all right, insisting on being called the True Warden of the East, a brat who was prone to whiny tantrums and runny noses. Jon did not want to feed into his wonts further and just decided to grit his teeth and lock his jaws every time Robert did something that made his palms itch. 

Beside Lord Arryn sat Sansa, prim and proper as the lady she was, tempering the young boy's worst habits when needed. She was intently focused on either her meal or the Lord Robert's whims. 

Jon did not know what to do with her frigidity. It tore at his mind to see her so...apathetic and distant, a sharp contrast to how she always sounded in the letters they exchanged. Whenever he did catch her eye, Sansa would look at him as if he had done her a great injustice, large blue eyes giving him a look which he could not make any sense of, yet flooring him all the same. At an utter loss, Jon decided sulk at his plate instead, picking at his food. 

For all the rich samites, fabrics and furs he was wearing, carrying a title such as King in the North and commanding the fealty of thousands of people, just a pair of eyes could make him feel so...inadequate. Could make him feel like that boy who always grimaced at his feet whenever Lady Stark would come bearing down on him like a storm for whatever slights he had committed. 

This was not what he had envisioned for their reunion. 

And yet, it should not have come as such a painful surprise either. 

Sansa and he always been so estranged. 

People of two different milieus, whose worlds would never intersect under normal circumstances. 

The bards were adamantly making sure every song they knew bounced off the walls of the gathering hall with vigour, loud and boisterous in strumming their instruments. They used their harps and lutes with the grace and talent of Braavosi minstrels. Perhaps they were Braavosi minstrels, Jon wondered. Their skin complexion certainly was something he was not used to. 

The floor was packed with laughing maidens twirled around by young suitors, clapping and singing along. Jon recognized Ser Wylis indulging a young lady's request for a dance, the whiskers above his mouth twitching as he laughed alongside her. Larence had garnered the attention of scullery maidens, his face as bright as a lamp as two young girls for all intent and purposes draped themselves over him, poking at his scarred face. 

Roger Ryswell, another new addition to Jon's cohort, was dancing with a daughter of House Lynderly. Or was she a Grafton? Jon could not be sure. Whichever house she belonged, she looked quite eager to do her family injustice based on the way her hand kept travelling down Roger's crotch. 

Whatever enmity was before had seemed to simmer down. Valemen and Northmen were mingling easier than before, sharing jests and tankards. Jon reckoned it was the effect of good ale and food that caused northern rigor to loosen. The feast was one of the most opulent ones Jon had ever seen. As he took it all in, Jon learned that people with full bellies were easier to make friends with. 

But as he sat down through it all, the festivities failed to touch his own mind. 

Jon's heart sat like a heavy rock in his chest. 

It must have shown, because the people around could not help their curious glances, waiting for some trickery or snarl or something else you would expect from a caged animal. He certainly scared off a fair amount to people who considered their luck with him. One young knight especially, the Waynwood boy, watched him with keen eyes as he sat with his sworn brothers. 

Suddenly, a tumult demanded the attention of everyone attending the feast. To Jon's right, where the entrance into the gathering hall was, a group of knights made their way in, dirt-stricken and bloody as hounds after a hunt. 

"Esteemed lords and ladies of the Vale!" A blond-haired youth shouted, holding his bloodied sword up. By the gods, was that Valyrian steel? "We come with great news! The mountain clans west of the Giant's Lance have been put down like the rabid savages they are! No more will they harass the good people of the Vale again! Seven blessings on us all!" 

The young man's dimpled smile earned him a round of applause as knights donning similar armour circled around him and clapped him on the shoulders. Lord Arryn joined in on the applause, hooting as loud as he could. 

Jon cared only for one person's reaction. 

Sansa smiled demurely as she gave a few soft claps of her own, the blush of a bashful maiden reddening her cheeks. _ So, __she hasn't outgrown her girlish fancies, yet. _

A spark of annoyance crackled in his chest, but Jon bit the inside of his cheek and ignored it. Settling his eyes back on the blond, Jon seized him up from head to toe, scrutinizing him. He was a straight young man, maybe of a similar age as himself, clean-limbed and looking highborn. The blond knight was handsome in a way that unsettled Jon, a vague memory sparking to life. Visions of another blond knight swam before his sight, eyes cat-green and contemptuous. Jaime Lannister. This man reminded Jon of Ser Jaime Lannister. 

"Your Grace." Jon was kicked out of his musings by the fair-haired knight's sudden appearance standing before him, cradling a helmet with wings at the side to his hip. He gave a curt nod and a smile, offering a hand. "I'm Harrold Arryn, heir to the Vale. It's an honour to have the King in the North in our midst." 

Standing up, Jon accepted the hand and gave him a firm handshake. It did not please him at all to see Harrold Arryn wince at the unnecessary strength Jon poured into his hand."I had no idea Lord Robert had an heir older than himself. Are you a cousin of his?" 

Harrold chuckled. "A distant cousin, yes. It's a long story, one that will probably bore you." 

"If you say so..." Jon belatedly realized how dismissive he sounded, but truth be told, he cared very little whether the blond knight took offense to his response or not. 

After an uneasy moment, Harrold excused himself and stepped down, saying that he was in need of a bath to wash the battle off his mind, but before he left the hall, he made it theatrically visible how he greeted Sansa, taking an elaborate knee before her and gallantly kissing her knuckles. And as he expected, Sansa's face went red even fiercer, but she never made an attempt of protest, sitting there like a delighted damsel, all smiles and bright eyes. 

What

Why did that make him gnash his teeth so? 

The festivities settled back once the comely knight and his sworn brothers took their leave. Boredom was starting seep into his mind like a poison the longer the festivities dragged on, but he did everything in his power to not allow his disinterest to show. Cold he could be, but downright insulting was out of the question. An insult to the Vale would be an insult to Sansa's hospitality, and he would not do that to her. 

At least Jon took a fair bit of enjoyment seeing Satin so carefree in his smiles, sharing a tankard with Mya Stone. Gods above knew how much Satin needed some relief. He was a tireless aid, unfailing and loyal, but Jon knew of the amount of strain pressing Satin's mind. Satin served the North just as much as Jon did, and for that, he had Jon's eternal gratitude. 

If anything, the companionship Satin made with Mya was worth traversing these foreign lands. To see his friend loosen his shoulders from the burdens of help ruling a kingdom and genuinely smile for a change brightened Jon's spirit a little. Samwell crossed his mind then. And like the sudden twist of a ship amidst a storm, Jon felt his mood capsize, turning from content to dark, knitting his eyebrows together in thought. 

Gods, how he missed Samwell and his quiet kindness. 

Missed Grenn and his booming laughter. 

Missed Pyp and his soft singing. 

He missed their advice and companionship sorely. 

_ Remember, Jon Stark, a king has no friends, only followers and foes. _

It was no secret that Lady Barbrey allowed the bitterness in her life to punctuate every aspect of her life. One of her last pieces of advice was that kings only ever stood alone, because no one else were their equals. Jon did nothing but look at her while she fixed his fur collar across his shoulders and told him to keep her abreast. 

A king's only few friends were solitude and duty. 

Two miserable sods determined to make a third one. 

_ Who would ever want to be king? _

Ser Harrold came back, groomed, perfumed and wearing expensive silks, wearing a white and blue doublet with matching trousers. He took a perch right beside Sansa as soon as he was near the high table, immediately hailing her with his exploits in the west. It went on for a while, the two of them engaging in easy banter while Jon did everything in his power to not storm out of the hall, brandish Longclaw and cut down any practice dummy on sight. 

Jon was self-aware of his irrational frustrations, and ironically, it added more frustration. 

Just as he was about to lose himself in his swelling thoughts again, a womanly figure approached his table. Lifting his eyes, he was met with Sansa's other friend. 

She was a simpering lady, all feminine charm and mirth, swathed in a form-fitting auburn dress as she stood before him. "Would His Grace honour me with a dance?" 

Her name was Myranda Royce, daughter of Nestor Royce, the Lord of the Gates of the Moon. She stood there a little askew, a hand on her hip while the other was extended towards him in a knowing manner, the bows of her lips pulled in a shrewd little smile. Jon was anything but in the mood for a dance, bone-tired and cantankerous for various of reasons. _ Remember your courtesies. You're no longer a bastard, but a king. Act the part, at least. _

"I fear I'm not a good dancer, my lady." Jon said politely, hiding his grimace. That was at least true. Better to deny with a truth than feigning a lie. When _ was _the last time he had taken a maiden to dance? Before the Watch? Before King Robert's arrival? 

Lady Myranda was not deterred. "They say that a man good with a sword is a natural dancer. Are you talented in swordplay, Your Grace?" 

Jon almost bit his lip in frustration, but decided against it. "I'm trained, if that's what you wish to hear." Myranda raised her eyebrow suggestively at Jon's evasive answer. "I don't think this is wise..." 

Pouting, Myranda pulled her hand back. "Would you be so callous to deny a lady's request, my lord?" 

Clicking his tongue discretely, Jon wiped his sweaty palms off on the caps of his knees and relented, pulling at his black woollen trousers before he rose from his seat. Better to get this over with quickly, Jon thought with a sigh. 

Gingerly, Jon twined his hand with Myranda's and followed her to the open floor. People made way for them, parting as they neared, and before long, it were just Jon and Myranda. The band of musicians lowered their instruments, glancing at their lady curiously, waiting for their cue. 

"Give us a merry tune, Sven!" 

The music began with a lively note and picked up volume and energy. It was an unfamiliar tune, smooth and light and easy to follow. Not that Jon was overly familiar with the nature of songs. 

Before Myranda reached for his hand, she curtsied, looking up through her lashes at him. Remembering his lessons, Jon bowed as well before he modestly placed a hand on her waist while he took her other in his own. 

"Go on then, lead us through this dance." Jon said. "It was your suggestion. You may take the lead." 

His answer was an excited titter. "With pleasure, my lord." 

It took him a few tries, but Jon found his rhythm soon enough, swaying to the lively music, following Myranda's lead as best as he could. Myranda gave a few becks, but other than that, she seemed genuinely pleased with his efforts. 

"I was right. Good swordsmen do have a gift for dancing." Myranda praised, tittering as Jon twirled her around once. 

"You're as good a dancer as you are a flatterer." Jon grunted, twirling her once more. 

"I only tell the truth, Your Grace. I'm willing to bet a pouch of coin that all these highborn maidens around us are feeling a surge of envy seeing me dance with such a..." Her eyes roved over him. There was a gleam there that caused him to tighten his hold on her hand in warning. "...formidable man of repute. They look at you with such interest. I can tell, because I've been one of them. Who wouldn't? We ladies of the Vale have never seen a fierce northern man before. Certainly not one with the reputation of the King in the North." His warning did not seem to have deterred her, for Myranda leaned for a whisper. "Men like you have been the topic of...womanly fantasies since forever here. You haven't disappointed us yet." 

Jon averted his eyes, his unease hidden by the skin of his teeth. He was doing everything he could to avoid stepping on the young woman's toes. For the rest of their dance, Jon remained stubbornly taciturn. Myranda was a flatterer indeed, sweet-tongued and simpering like a wicked temptress, taking pleasure in teasing and pulling strings better left undisturbed. 

Not a single other pair had decided to join them, the floor wide and clear for just the two of them, a wide berth for them to use. Jon's caught the intrigued eyes of all these onlookers, Valemen and Northmen alike. Were they so surprised to see him dance? Granted, he was not a talent, but at least he knew how to sway to the music without making a fool out of himself. Myranda was far more impressive. She was a dancer with fleet footwork. 

"My betrothed doesn't seem to be impressed with my dancing at all, I'm afraid." Myranda sighed, Jon bringing back his eyes on her, a little startled by her little confession. 

"Your betrothed?" 

Myranda nodded and pointed her chin towards the high table. "The comely knight entertaining your cousin? He's my betrothed." 

Jon frowned. "Why have you not asked him to take you for a dance then, my lady?" 

Shrugging a shoulder, Myranda pressed herself just a little bit closer, pushing her breasts against his chests. Jon frowned further at the touch. "His interests are currently elsewhere, as you can see. Ser Harrold is a notorious skirt chaser and a bit of a cad. He's innocent enough, nothing to be worried about, but his fascination with Sansa Stark has made him a bit foolhardy. I guess being saved by the woman did that to him." 

"Am I supposed to be assured?" Jon said rather gruffly. His dislike for Harrold had spiked to unreasonable heights. "If he dares dishonour Sansa's virtue, I'll have his head on a spike." 

"Oh? How chivalrous." Myranda lilted in a teasing way. "You care for her honour, then?" Myranda asked boldly. It was brazen enough for Jon to make him scowl in outrage. 

"What kind of question is that? She's my flesh and blood, the only one left to me. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her." 

"It's not I who needs convincing, my lord." 

"Whatever do you mean?" Jon was utterly confused now, and because of that, it made him tighten his grip on Myranda's waist considerably. Her little squeal of surprise followed by her coquettish smile bewildered him, his hold loosening instantly. 

Myranda tutted just as the music came to a crescendo. "Oh, Your Grace, there is no need for frosty frowns. Harrold is reckless, I'll admit, but his guardian isn't. Lady Anya has him on a tight leash. He wouldn't dare do something so foolish. It would insult quite a lot of people. And your cousin has a good head between her shoulders. She knows better than to allow a man such as Harry to indulge his whims any more than is proper." 

Jon was unconvinced but he bit his tongue and pursed his lips anyway. Daring a look to the high table, he found himself surprised to see Sansa's fixed eyes on him, the power behind them rooting him to his place. It was the first time she gave him a look for more than two seconds since he had arrived. Harrold kept chattering her ear off, but she seemed to pay him little mind. Her eyes were two sets of blue fire, burning bright and fierce, the slightest narrow to be noticed. 

She looked thoroughly displeased. 

"Oh my..." Myranda tittered as their dance came to a stop. "Looks like your lady cousin didn't like our dance at all." Before Myranda parted, she gave him a last look, one of the sharpest smiles he had ever seen someone wield. "I must implore you, King Jon, to have a word with Princess Sansa. There's been some misunderstanding between you two that needs to be cleared." 

The music died down soon after, quickly followed by a boisterous round of applause that startled Jon to his core. He looked around him to see the various impressed faces of the Vale nobles, but they all were insignificant to him. 

He only cared for one person 

Sansa joined in the applause as well, a soft and reserved clapping. 

She then stood up just as a strong-looking woman with blonde hair and clad in armour arrived, showing her out. Her departure was cold and swift, a northern wind coming down like the blade of an executioner. 

And then she was gone. 

The more time Jon spent here in the south, the more extraordinary things he was coming across. None of them necessarily endeared to him. The south was a strange place. He was eager to be finished with his business here. 

But in order for that business to be concluded... 

Jon needed to talk with Sansa. 

It was a prospect he both dreaded and yearned. 


	10. Chapter 10

_ **SANSA** _

A pull here, a tug at that end, the point of a sharp needle piercing just so, swift not to let it hit the skin of her finger. Repeat. Another pull. Carefully knitting the stitches together... 

_ Curses! _

Sansa took her pricked finger in her mouth to stem the bleeding, a plethora of ruined cloths and linens scattered about over Sansa's grey bedsheets. The fabric made of various white and grey shades were ripped and mangled at the aggression of Sansa's embroidery, pitiful garlands of lace and silk worthy of a few tragic tears. The seamstresses of Myr would have cried at the atrocity she just committed. 

Pins and needles and thread also lay about dangerously, tucked away in the folds of her bedlinens or somewhere on the rugged carpet, a result of her stormy mind tossing them to the ground on accident as she was busy knitting. Myranda had complained more than once to her about it, rubbing an elbow or foot in chagrin whenever she poked herself on one of those stray little devils. 

Sansa cared little for her protests. 

Currently, she was tearing into her little project with broad and angry strokes. Had she been calm, Sansa would be pulling together the fabric with the ease of a seasoned artist. She was not calm now. 

The petitions went longer than usual and Sansa had them cut short just before her patience ran dry as a desert. First, an old farmer had come to the Gates, airing his grievances about the avarice of a certain petty lord who wished to levy a bigger toll than was legally stipulated. Sansa had fined the lord with a hefty sum to set him straight. 

Then, a group of foreign merchants from Gulltown complained about the new tariffs which the mayor had imposed on exotic goods, especially those who exported fine beverages and blown glassworks to the Vale, since the war in the east had started to influence the Free Cities more prevalently. The tariffs felt excessive to Sansa even, so she lowered them by a tenth. They still voiced their dissatisfaction, but one glare from Brienne had them all bite their tongue like prisoners facing the gaoler. 

And last, Sansa had to deal with Lord Lyonel Corbray of Heart's Home, who again tried to reclaim the heirloom of his house, but to no avail. He was adamant and domineering, like any lord trying to regain something as precious as a Valyrian steel sword and facing a mere girl in his opinion. Sansa had explained to him, again, that it was a matter he was ought to bring before the Royces or the Waynwoods, not to her. 

On his way out, Sansa heard him curse under his breath that she was as competent a regent as Robert was a Warden. The slight annoyed her and Sansa only needed to nod at Brienne and the man would have enjoyed the cold embrace of the oubliette, but she restrained herself after a short contemplating moment, though, some effort was made. 

To regain a sense of peace, Sansa locked herself up in her chambers for a few hours and picked up an activity which she had not touched in years. To say she was out of practice would have been an understatement, but as time passed, embroidery came back easier and easier to her. 

Only to then remember the events of these last couple of days. 

_ Damn Myranda and her little games! Damn Robert and his whining! Damn the Vale lords and their pig-headedness! Damn the northern lords and their apathy! Damn Jon and his frozen heart! Damn them all! _

Two days of silence and avoidance had made Sansa's heart grow weary and hurt, a dark cloud hanging above her head. Sweetrobin had steered clear from her, thank the gods, cowed by the sharp frown she would give him at the slightest hint of a whine. 

Mya was too busy rubbing elbows with Jon's steward and Myranda had her own little things to attend. Not that Sansa wanted to see or be near her. Granted, it was Sansa who started the whole pettiness, but it was a reaction to Jon's initial response to their reunion. 

Her heart still ached from that. 

Sansa had seen it that day. The garish disappointment bled out of him in undulating waves, red and angry as the blood currently flowing through her veins. If that was not enough, the whole dance he had with Myranda made her gnash her teeth together in the most unladylike manner she had ever witnessed herself do. How utterly dare he gallivant with someone who was promised to another! Myranda had been close to spilling her breasts the way she pushed them up into Jon's face! It was scandalous, to say the least! 

Worst of all, Jon had not spoken more than five words properly to her before he strutted off and went to go about affairs with the lords of the Vale. To add insult to injury, he spoke about her as if she was not even in the same room present! 

And not to mention the northern nobles. They looked at her with nothing but sheer suspicion. She was a complete stranger in their eyes, an outsider, even more than she ever was before. They gazed at her like she was a leper. What had Sansa done to herald such mistrust from Father's bannermen? Gods, the muscles of her heart constricted like snakes around its prey. It made her so unbelievably downtrodden just by thinking about. 

How could they all be so callous? 

With a huff loud enough to wake the dead, Sansa pulled herself away from her bed and sat before her dressing table, picking up the ivory-handled hairbrush Myranda gifted to her. She let it go through the tresses of her auburn hair, the tugs on the roots of her hair oddly comforting. She brushed and brushed, a thousand thoughts stirring inside her head. 

The sound of her door creaking open reached Sansa's ears, and through the looking glass, Sansa saw how Myranda slipped inside gracefully. Sansa continued to brush her hair, unacknowledging her friend. 

Myranda took no offence and came closer. "Let me help, Your Grace." 

Sansa pulled her back firmer into a line, not ceasing her motions. "No need, Randa. I can do it myself." 

There was a bite to her words, the fangs of a snarling wolf poking out beneath her lip. Sansa was still cross with Myranda and her rather obtrusive behaviours. 

Her friend was not deterred and tittered behind her hand. "Have I done something to offend you, darling? You look like I dirtied your prettiest shoes." Myranda braced her hands on the chair. "If I didn't know better, those pretty blue eyes of yours look like they could freeze over the Narrow Sea." She tapped a finger to her chin, canting her head. "It must be a Stark thing, I suppose. Your kingly cousin also has that look." 

"What look?" It slipped out before she knew it, and Sansa cursed herself at how eager she sounded. 

Myranda chuckled mirthfully as she came to kneel by her side, folding her arms on top of Sansa's thighs. She laid her head on them as she looked up, eyes arch and knowing, fingers lightly tickling her flesh. 

"A look cold enough to freeze over a Dornishman's lust." 

Facing away, Sansa resumed brushing her hair, doing anything to keep her mind occupied. "I know not what you're hinting at." 

"You don't...?" Myranda rose and smiled playfully, twirling about in her chambers. "So, what happened during the welcoming feast did not bother you at all, my dear princess?" 

Feigning disinterest, Sansa stashed away her hair-brush and reached out for a blue lint from one of her boxes. Her deft fingers began to plait her combed hair into a simple braid, lint clutched between her lips. Sansa allowed a great deal of it flow unbridled in a sea of bronze. Sansa finished her hair with a tie at the back of her head, keeping the braids together. 

Myranda gave her a once-over, eyes scrutinizing her with a slight narrow. "To what do we owe this pretty sight?" 

Sansa rolled her shoulder. "I felt putting in a little more effort." 

Her mischievous friend gave a little shake of her head, an eyebrow raised expectantly. "For whom, may I ask...?" 

Sansa pursed her lips tightly and remained silent. She did not want to answer that question. 

Just as she was outside her rooms, Myranda called out to her. "You can speak frankly to me, Sansa. I've never shied away from the truth." 

Myranda was a daunting woman, powerful and cunning in her own right. Her way with words was especially something Sansa admired about her friend. Smooth as water, sharp as steel. The more Sansa spent time here in the Vale, the more she began to see that Myranda was taking a different role. No, not a different one, an added one. 

She was still a dear friend to her, close to Sansa's heart, like Mya, but at the same time, a new glimmer shone around Myranda, the sheen of another armour, the edge of another sword. Not only was she a friend, but she was also someone Sansa liked to measure herself up to, compare her wits and talents and Myranda's. A healthy rivalry, of sorts. 

Nothing like how Margaery treated her. 

Bracing her hands in front of her waist, clasping them together in the way ladies were thought, Sansa raised her chin at her dear friend. "I didn't particularly like the way you behaved around my cousin, King Jon, during the feast." 

"How did I act?" She chimed with a tilt of her head. Myranda was playing games with her again. She would have none of that. 

Sansa frowned. "For someone who is betrothed, half the court had to witness the...heated glow of your dance with His Grace. Some might see that as frivolous manners." 

Myranda answered with a chiming laugh. "Seven give me strength. That's rich, coming from you, darling." 

Sansa craned her neck, her eyes narrowing to slits. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Within a few steps, Myranda stood right in front of her, her finger tracing Sansa's cheek. "I may have shared a nice dance with your handsome cousin..," Sansa's stomach tightened at that. "...and acted more familiar than I should have, but you got a lead on me somewhere else entirely. I mean, Harry has had more walks through the gardens with you on his arm than with me! Isn't that amusing?" 

It was thrown in her face so glaringly, Sansa had to reel back in shock, swallowing down the lump of embarrassment. Sansa threw her bashful eyes down, her neck and ears burning with shame, cheeks reddening by the second at the blatant truth. 

"I didn't mean anything with it." Sansa muttered with a slight hiccup. "I-I just found it...endearing how Harry suddenly started treating me so well, in contrast to how he was in the beginning. I couldn't help myself in responding to it." 

Her mind expected scathing words from Myranda. Sansa was already bracing herself to be righteously shamed for her actions. She was right to do so, after all, much to Sansa's mortification. In hindsight, the way Sansa had reacted to Harry's advances was less than proper, and she felt hideously ashamed of it. 

It was highly unbecoming for a young lady to keep such unchaperoned trysts with any man, let alone a man who was already promised to another. It was never meant to go somewhere, Sansa reasoned, just a hand in trying to forge an amicable friendship. Her honour and pride would not have let it go further. 

A part of her desired it, though... 

Sansa could not help it as the sting of tears prickled her eyes. All these years, she had been so terribly alone, a wounded wolf limping through the snow and crying for her pack time after time, only to hear silence reign around her. 

Sansa had been greedy for even a small bit of love, thirsting after it with the desire and desperation of a dying creature for some water. In the eve of her darkest hours, when despair had her cornered from all sides, Sansa even considered giving in to Petyr Baelish and his advances. 

Just for a bit of love and security, true or false as it would be. 

But when word came to her that Jon was alive, by the gods, Sansa felt like she was alive again. All this time, she felt like drowning, but when she heard of Jon's health and life, air filled her lungs again. Sansa was alive again, burning from the inside with something, a sudden light bursting open, hot and untempered like wildfire. 

The drum of her heart had come to a lively beat again, a hard pulse instead of that low and excruciating batter that sounded like a lullaby sung by the Stranger. Her blood felt warm again, the air she tasted sweet and rich. All that anticipation, all that building joy, it was a sweetness like no other. 

Finally, she was no longer alone. She had all but forgotten about Harry during the time Sansa was preparing for Jon's arrival, only for it all to come tumbling down in a vicious fall. All of it shattered like brittle ice in the span of a second. 

How could she be so affected by one person? 

Preparing herself for the worst, Sansa dared to face her friend. Myranda at least deserved that dignity. She would fully accept her displeasure. 

It never came. 

"I'm not cross with you, sweet Sansa." Myranda came to say to her. "I know you would have never allowed it to be something more than just a fleeting fancy. You're too proper, too honest for scandalous affairs. I know Harrold is beautiful, anyone can see that, and this chivalrous change of his is certainly not an unwelcome thing." Linking their hands together, Myranda smiled. Nothing condescending nor sympathetic, just the smile of a woman who wished to give a piece of advice. "He is not what you want, though. We all try to find someone, somewhere, _ something _, to give us peace. Does Harrold give you peace?" 

"No..." She answered, not hesitating. Harry's actions were flattering, and Sansa genuinely enjoyed them to a small degree, but she longed for something else. Someone else. Someone familiar and true. Someone brave, gentle and strong. To her guilt, she just indulged in Harry's attention to satisfy a deeper, darker craving. 

Sansa had her fill with the passion and rot that came with blind love and passion. How it ran hot and cold and true and false, how it filled her with lust and disgust all at the same time. It was wrong. It made her delusional. It made her remember the little girl who fell in love with Joffrey Baratheon, a beautiful monster. 

"Then what do you wish for? What do you want that you do not have?" 

Sansa wished for lands glistening with snow and dotted with woods, eyes like grey beryls and the scent of soldier pines, the howl of wolves during the night. She pined for white winds and an ancient castle as old as time itself, filled with the laughter of children. 

“Home.” 

Sansa wished to go home. 

Myranda folded her arm with hers and tugged Sansa along "Come, the day has just begun. We still have much to do. It also wouldn't do to keep His Grace waiting." 

Thinking back of Jon opened a well of sadness and discomfort inside her again. Myranda was quick to sense it and laid a hand on top of hers. "You must have a proper talk with Jon. This..." She gestured towards her. "...whatever it is that's stopping you from having a real conversation with your only blood relative must cease at once." 

"Why should I bother?" Sansa lamented. "I know exactly why he's so disappointed to see me..." 

"Disappointed?" Myranda quirked an eyebrow. 

"What else must he be feeling? He says nary a word to me except flimsy greetings every time we pass each other, or when we break our fast." Sansa said back bitterly. "He immediately vanishes like a ghost afterwards, the Lords Declarant on his trails to some chamber to discuss matters I know nothing of." 

"You've never tried attending these meetings?" 

Pouting, Sansa shook her head. "I see no reason to..." 

Myranda responded with an incredulous scoff. "By the Seven, I never thought you'd be such a craven!" 

Sansa pinched her friend's side, earning her an indignant shriek. "I'm not a craven!" 

Despite the pinch, Myranda grinned like she had won the greatest prize in the world. "You take me for a fool? You _ are _a craven. What is it you fear? Jon would lay down his life for you, sweetling." 

Sansa was rather unconvinced, frowning sardonically. "Perhaps out of obligation, he would. He might see me as a duty and nothing else." 

The more Sansa thought about it, the more painful it sounded, for it was such a probable thing, gaining merit the longer its possibility rooted inside her mind, rankling like a stubborn weed. "How would you know, anyway?" 

"He spoke to me during our dance. Your cousin is a man of few words, but when he does speak, he does it without mincing words." She turned to her fully now, tittering. "He said to me that if Harry even thought of dishonouring you, he would have his head on a spike. Oh, he made it sound so menacing. It got me a little thrilled, I must confess." 

A warmth bubbled low in her stomach, Sansa realized, something akin to hope sizzling at the thought of Jon so protective of her, but that warmth was waging a vicious battle with her disbelief. 

_ Jon would lay his life down for any of my siblings. Would he even do so for the sister who never was his sister? Who never even tried to be so? For the girl who always behaved so aloof and distant towards him? _ If she were Arya, Jon would have sung to the skies in happiness. She was his sister, but Sansa was not. 

She was but a stranger who shared his blood. 

"The little gift you were trying to prepare for him was also quite adorable." 

Sansa panicked. "What gift?" 

Myranda's laughing smile met hers. "I have eyes, Your Grace. I couldn't help but notice the piece of cloth on your bed. The white direwolf is coming along especially well." 

It was supposed to be a surprise. As much as Jon had wounded her with his manners, she was still so desperate for his regard and affections. The new banner she had knitted for Jon was supposed to be a welcoming gift from her part, a way of her endorsing him and place as King in the North. She never got to finish it before he landed at the Gates. It was a work in progress even before Jon arrived, and now, these last two days, her mind was preoccupied with other matters to see it to completion. 

It certainly did not have anything to do with her grudge. 

The Gates of the Moon was awake and about, people going about their work diligently. Her sworn shield Brienne of Tarth was speaking with Podrick in hushed tones when Sansa and Myranda came upon them. 

"Princess, I need to share something with you." Brienne spoke, urgency clear in her tone. Concerned, Sansa nodded for Brienne to continue. "Ser Jaime is nowhere to be found." 

Sansa froze. "Did he flee the castle?" 

Brienne grimaced. "I don't know for certain, Your Grace. The guards have not reported anything. Should he have fled the Gates, we would have been notified, for certain." 

"The Gates of the Moon is not a maze. Surely, he must be somewhere here?" Sansa asked, concerned. 

Brienne shook her head, a mailed hand resting on Oathkeeper. "For now, all we can do is try to find him. I've already instructed Pod alongside a few other squires of the castle to start a search for him. Wherever he is, Ser Jaime can't be far." 

"We'll leave the matter to you, then, Lady Brienne." Myranda chimed in. 

Her sworn shield looked taken aback by Myranda's interjecting dismissal, but soon she regained herself and nodded before marching off. 

They entered the open courtyard and returned the cordial greetings of various courtiers and servants, helping a few idle maidservants by giving them new instructions to carry out. 

Up ahead, across the training grounds, Sansa noted the seven brothers of the Brotherhood of Winged Knights. Since Ser Lyn was stripped of his place as a Winged Knight, the guard had a brother less to rely on. 

The Winged Knights were exercising between one another with blunt swords, not a single piece of armour on them. They were all dressed in leather breeches and sheepswool tunics, laughing boyishly at the swings thrown their way. 

There was little to no coordination between them all. Sansa was by no means an expert on combat training, but even she saw that Robert's personal guards were lollygagging leisurely. 

Roland and Jasper were crossing swords, but every strike was dramatic and exaggerated. Godric was paired off with Ronnel, as was proper since they bought weighted the same amount of stones, most likely. Isembard was giving tips to Nestor, the latter clutching his shoulder in a pained way while Isembard gave him an apologetic look. They looked like a coterie of carefree stags locking horns. 

"All right, brothers!" Harry shouted. "Let's have a proper training! It's a good day for sparring! Ser Roland! Come forward, let's test our mettle against each other!" 

Harry was dressed just like his fellow knights, a sheer tunic thrown over his broad chest, swinging a blunt sword gracefully as he stared off at Lady Anya's grandson. 

Roland was quick to rise to the challenge. "Just because you're the heir to the Vale and grandmother's ward doesn't mean I'll hold back, Harry. I've had enough of your handsome face stealing all the ladies here!" 

Their spar was quick-paced and brutish, two skilled fighters trying to outdo the other. Roland was quicker with his moves, but Harry had a brawnier physique. His strikes had more strength than his opponent's. Sansa could feel her cheeks grow a little hot at the inspiring sight. Harry did look talented in fighting. She was not alone in her admiration as a few young ladies kept swooning from the side, complimenting either knight on their skill. 

"Look who just entered the fray." Myranda muttered from her side. Sansa's eyes landed on a much more imposing figure striding into the courtyard, fringed by Lord Yohn and Nestor Royce. Jon had just entered the scene. 

Her heart doubled its rapid beating. 

Ghost was at Jon’s side, the direwolf faithfully keeping to his master’s side. His handsome and tacit steward, Satin, walked close behind Jon, a ledger and quill in hand, before all of them ground to a halt as Jon ceased his march. Those familiar grey eyes of his were watching the mock fight between Harry and Roland keenly while Lord Nestor kept chattering his ear off. 

The fight was not long, both combatants sharing laboured breaths as they stood opposite of the other. 

"I'll give you this win, Roland." Harry panted, straightening his back as a serving boy came up to offer him a pitcher of water. 

"Good to see that you know your place at least on the battlefield." Roland boasted, throwing the practice sword to the muddy ground just before another servant could relief it off his hands. He had to scrape it up instead now. "Bring me wine, for the gods' sake! Who do I have to fuck to get a drink here!?" 

The crowd offered a small applause before dispersing, Sansa joining in for a little while, and just as she was about to leave, something made her stay rooted in place. 

"King Jon! Share with us what you thought of the fight! We'd like to hear the opinion of a renowned warrior such as yourself." Came Harry's teasing burr. A chill ran down Sansa's spine. 

_ This won't end well... _

"I'd rather not, Ser Harrold. I'm pressed for time." Jon declined curtly, his hand going through Ghost’s fur. Some of the twisting tension inside Sansa's stomach ebbed at the decline. Fortunately, Jon saw some sense. 

"You didn't seem impressed with our performance." Harry pressed on. 

Jon gave him a deadpan stare. "Because I wasn't." 

That caused the smile to wither off Harry's face. Sansa heard the little snicker from Myranda, and truth be told, Sansa had to smother her own urge at giggling with great effort. She had never seen this snarky side of Jon. 

Roland jeered at the refusal. "Come on now, Your Grace." Sansa heard the mocking tone behind the title and clenched her hands. "We could use some of your 'gracious wisdom'. If I remember well, your late cousin never lost a battle before! Peerless in both fighting and campaigning. Not a surprise the Lannisters did what they did. If only Robb Stark wasn't beheaded. Oh well, looks like not all warriors die with dignity." 

The air was knocked out of Sansa's lungs at Roland's audacity. _ How dare he...! _ A rage so hot started to bubble beneath her skin, she could almost see the heat rising off of her flesh. 

"Others take you, Roland, you callous bastard. That's not how you speak about the late King Robb." Ser Isembard chastised as he grabbed the young ser by the scruff of his neck, but Roland was quick to rip himself out of his grip with a hard jerk. 

"Don't touch me. You and your turncloak family would’ve happily gone in bed with the likes of those traitors." Roland snarled. "I've grown tired of keeping my mouth shut. I'll tell this 'king' exactly how it is. Robb Stark was a traitor for raising his banner in revolt against the Iron Throne. It's just as simple. Him, Stannis, Renly, all of them were traitors. House Baratheon seems to be full of them. They got what was coming." 

"Do you have a wish to die, Roland!?" Jasper said hurriedly. 

An eerie silence fell upon the courtyard. Whereas before Sansa could not think of anything but anger towards Ser Roland, now, a slow touch of dread was building up. She dared a peek at Jon. 

If looks could kill, Ser Roland would have died a hundred times over. By both Jon and Ghost. 

"Pick up a sword, ser." Jon said, the calm in his voice unsettling. "I'll show you exactly the skill we savage Northmen possess when it comes to battle." 

Roland licked his lips and eyed Jon's Valyrian steel sword. A madness gleamed there. "You aren’t scared of living steel, I assume? To mimic a real experience?" 

"King Jon, I don't think this is wise. We'll deal with him through Lady An-" Lord Nestor began, but was cut off by a raised hand. 

"Pick whatever weapon you wish." The sound of a sword leaving its sheath was like a verdict. Jon's sword was magnificent, ripples in the dark steel indicating it Valyrian steel. It had a white wolf's head for a pommel. Where did Jon procure such a beautiful sword? 

Jon shrugged off his white fur mantle and gifted both his sword and cloak to Satin, but Roland's scoff stopped him mid-exchange. "Keep your sword, Your Grace. I'll duel you on equal grounds." He nodded to Harry, and the blond knight hesitated for a second. "Well? Get Corbray's sword! Time to test the might of Valyrian steel!" 

"You're a fool if you think I'll use Longclaw for this." Jon snapped. 

"What use is Valyrian steel, then? To scratch your arse with? A man who bears it should use it properly." Roland grinned as Harry returned with an ornamented sheath, a heart-shaped ruby inserted in its pommel. Roland grabbed the hilt and dragged the prestigious sword out for all to see. Roland admired the beauty of his sword before he pointed the tip at Jon. "Now, let's get this started. I'm starving for some chi-" 

He never finished, for the sound of steel hitting steel rattled Roland Waynwood out of his blabbering. Jon had stricken the tip away with a quick slash, faster than Sansa had ever seen someone use a sword. 

"That was frighteningly quick." Jasper grumbled at the side. Nestor and Isembard were looking ill at ease, worried for their sworn brother. Even if he was as arrogant and displeasing as he was, Roland Waynwood was still their friend, Sansa reckoned. They had a right to be concerned, for Jon did not look like he was planning on holding back. 

"I don't like playing games. We'll end this fast." Jon warned, malicious and angry. He took a stand, the poise of a seasoned warrior reflected in him. "The first who draws blood wins. For your sake, I hope your arrogance matches your skill." 

Sansa was beginning to panic, her feet already itching to step up and stop this foolishness before it could start. Ghost had padded over, curling around her like a shield. Still, the tension persisted. Nothing good would come out of this. 

She was held back by Myranda, however, as she tried to disentangle herself from her friend. "Wait, my dear. Let's see how this unfolds." She smiled, patting Ghost gingerly. 

"Myranda! This is madness!" Sansa whispered fiercely. "What if they hurt each other? They're fighting with Valyrian steel!" 

"Don't worry." Myranda appeased, still smiling. "If it goes out of hand, I'll intervene, but for now, let Roland Waynwood dig his own grave." 

Gods, Sansa was gnashing her teeth harshly as she watched the two men stalk each other, swords drawn and ready. Mother's mercy, they did not even bother wearing armour! Here they stood, clad in nothing but wool and leathers. Sansa wanted to scream at them, ring their heads like bells or claw at them until they saw reason! 

Seven help her get through this. 

Roland was the first to strike and lunged forward with Lady Forlorn, throwing a few slashes, which Jon dodged with ease. Roland followed with a stab, clasping with both hands Lady Forlorn's hilt and thrusting it forward, but Jon parried it upward. Taking advantage of Roland's daze, Jon lunged for it, grabbing Roland's arm and wrist before he crashed his skull into his nose. Roland fell backwards, landing on his arse as he clutched his bleeding nose, groaning in pain. The crowd began to murmur at the vicious retaliation. 

"Get up and fight. A bleeding nose doesn't count." Jon venomously hissed through his teeth. "Is this the best you can offer? I've fought spearwives more fearsome than you. Stand up and do your title some justice, _ ser _." 

"You'll pay for that, savage bastard!" Roland roared in fury, lifting his sword up and frantically slashing around. Sansa's heart was beating against her chest with rapid succession, a hand covering her mouth as the anxiety clogged her throat. Jon dodged and deflected Roland's attacks with ease, each time the sound of clattering steel making Sansa flinch in fright. 

It reminded her of King's Landing, of the Battle of the Blackwater, of soldiers sieging the walls of the capital and the sound of wildfire exploding around her. It reminded Sansa of Cersei's perfume, of frightened ladies clustering together, the scent of distant smoke and wine sloshing about. Her hands trembled as shivers raked down her spine. 

After yet another one of Roland’s hot-tempered try to break his defence, Jon bashed his foot into Roland’s stomach, kicking him away. “Is that all you’ve got? It’s my turn, then.” 

In contrast, Jon’s attacks were much more different. Sharp, calculative, ruthless even, giving no quarter, ceding no inch. Jon was making quick work of his adversary. Each time Jon’s sword, Longclaw she remembered, crossed with Lady Forlorn, sparks came out of their clash. Ser Roland kept backing away, desperate to keep up, pushed back again, and again, pressed on the defence, a crumbling wall suffering the onslaught of a hundred battering rams. 

Till he lost his footing. 

Then, the sound of a body hitting the ground with a hard thud snapped Sansa out of her anxiety. Ser Roland was on the ground, dirt-caked and out of breath, muddied snow staining his trousers and tunic. His sword was thrown to the wayside, trapped beneath Jon's boot as he loomed over the fallen knight. He had clearly won the battle. 

"Is this what passes for a knight nowadays? Loudmouthed lordlings with too much coin in their purses and too much arrogance holding their tongue? Tell me, have you fought in something else besides glorified tourneys, good ser?" Roland crawled up, crouching on one knee, his head hanging low as he tried to catch his ragged breath. The tip of Jon's sword lunged out, balanced underneath Roland's chin and forcing him to look at the King in the North. "I suppose not..." 

From where she stood, Sansa saw how Jon pressed his sword a little harder against Roland's throat, drawing blood. The knight had lost. 

"I should have your head for your insolence, Ser Roland Waynwood," The blood drained from Sansa's face. Gods, Jon would not, would he? "but I think a hand will suffice enough." 

She could not bear it anymore. 

“Stop this!” Sansa shouted just as Jon raised his sword to carry out his verdict. She ran up to Jon, hands folded against his chest and trying to keep him at bay. “Please, stop this, Jon!” 

Her pleading blue eyes found his grey ones, a ruthless edge there to be seen, dark and sinister and oh so frightening. This was not the honourable Jon she grew up with. This was not the same man who carried Bran back to his chambers when he fell, wiped Rickon’s dirty face off and fed Robb his herb-simmered beef stew when he came down with a fever. 

This was someone else entirely. 

Sansa felt as if she was gazing into the cold abyss itself, frightened to her very bones at what she was seeing. Before her stood a man ready to sate his desire for blood and she stood in his way. Yet, she determined further, unwilling to let fear cloud her. Jon would not hurt her. If anything, she was sure of, it was that Jon would not hurt her. 

Sansa pressed her hands further into the muscly expanse of Jon’s chest. 

“Please,” She whimpered. “stop it, Jon. You’ve won. Roland learned from his folly.” 

It seemed to have done the trick, for the light returned to his eyes and the tension in his body loosened, eyes bleeding back to a light shade of grey instead of obsidian black. The haze of bloodlust was waning, thank the gods. 

They stood there, gazing long and hard, blue and grey coming together. Sansa swallowed at the fragility of it all. They were so close, Sansa could smell the heady scent of Jon’s musk, see the silver scar above his brow and trace the ridges and lines of his ashen face with a finger. 

Gods, he looked so unbelievably, tragically, tired. 

“Excuse me.” 

Distancing himself from her, Jon turned heel and went through incredible lengths to leave, marching off and leaving the courtyard in a stormy tumult. Ghost quickly followed after Jon, paws agile and strong enough to match his master’s pace, and they soon vanished from sight as they entered the castle. 

Sansa spared a glance to Myranda, but her friend was surrounded by household guards, giving out orders to help Ser Roland to the infirmary. 

Her friend turned to her and simpered, twirling a lock between her fingers innocuously. “Well, that was rather entertaining.” 

“That could have ended far more terribly, Randa.” Sansa scolded. “What would your father think? That was reckless, even for you.” 

Myranda shrugged, waving her off. “But it didn’t, darling. and besides, dear Ser Roland has been put in his place. Certainly, that was worth seeing.” 

Sansa could not believe it, speechless at her friend’s careless. She hardened her face and spoke. “Jon could have gotten hurt, Myranda. I care little for Ser Roland, but steel doesn’t discriminate. One wrong slash, and you would have had a dead king on your hands.” 

_ And another dead Stark on mine. _

“His Grace was leagues above Ser Roland in terms of prowess, as you saw. There was nothing to be worried about." Sansa sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, mulling. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, to voice out, nay, scream, frustrations beneath the skin of her flesh rising up like needles. "Go after him. He needs you more than I do." 

Myranda smirked knowingly before she began to address her guards again. Jon's steward tagged along with Myranda, though the concern on Satin's face was clear to see. Her friend soothed his worries and twined their arms together, all but towing him along towards her own destination. 

Sansa spared no second and immediately followed Jon's trail, making her way through the halls of the Gates. She halted a few servants to question them if they saw him walk these halls, adjusting her directions to their answers. 

Sansa came to a round area inside the castle eventually, a great circular staircase made of abraded stone, the brown colour licked off by time. Several vines had come to pervade through the foundations of the castle, wrapped around many a surface, a few climbing up the walls, some even reaching the height of the roof. A few holes were poked inside the ceiling above, bathing places in dimmed sunlight, tiny flecks decking the columns with falling crystals. This place had not yet seen renovations. 

Sansa ascended the stairs, mindful of her steps, and finally collided with the person she was looking for. Sansa took in a shaky breath as she tucked herself behind a wall. Carefully, she peeked over the corner and took in the sight sprawled out in front of her. 

Jon was laying on a dark bannister covered in dewy moss, stretched out with his back against a wall, supporting an elbow on a bent knee. His other hand was going through Ghost's shaggy hair idly, the direwolf's large skull comfortably nestled against the length of his leg, enjoying his master's ministrations. 

The wind was blowing in through the large opening Jon was occupying, providing a view on the great stretch of land that was the Vale proper. He gazed at nothing particularly, the lines of his face hard and brooding. 

"Jon?" 

He made it not clear whether he noticed her or not, continuing to stroke Ghost's head with his fingers. Sansa dared a few steps closer. The white direwolf turned at the sound of a snapping twig, settling his blood-red eyes on her, but remaining as silent as his namesake. The creature shifted in his place, Sansa realizing that he was making space for her. 

"You must think me a bloodthirsty brute." Jon said all of a sudden, startling her. 

Her tongue laid heavy inside her mouth, a useless thing when she needed it most. There were so many things Sansa wanted to say, a million things actually. Despite her concerns, she was still cross with Jon, but was it worth keeping in the face of perhaps creating something much better? He had been cold and reluctant, and it hurt her so much, but an even greater part of her wished to just forget that and start afresh. 

Sansa was tired of being a lone wolf trudging in the snow, crying out for her pack. 

Brushing past Ghost, giving the creature an affectionate caress across his maw, Sansa perched herself next to Jon. "I don't know what I should think of you, Jon. We've hardly spoken to each other since you've come here." 

Jon retreated more into himself, turning his face away from her. She was losing him. Sansa would not have it. 

Grabbing his hand, Sansa stared straight into his surprised eyes as she wreathed her fingers with Jon's. "Why won't you talk to me? Why am I such a disappointment to you?" 

"D-disappointment?" Jon echoed. "You think I'm disappointed in seeing you?" 

It was her turn to look away. "What else could you have been two days ago? I saw it in your eyes. The disappointment was clear as day." 

"No, gods no, I wasn't-" 

"I don't blame you." Sansa blurted, the hurt making her say things, forcing her mouth to move of its own accord. Anything to not hear Jon's excuses. "You and I have never been the closest of kin. I suppose it's only normal for this canyon to exist between us." 

She could accept the bitter truth, but not white lies. Not from Jon. Everyone else had lied to Sansa, kept lying to her that they cared for her and wanted the best for her, and she was fine with that. Their words were wind. Jon's words were not. She could not bear to hear Jon lie to her as well. 

They remained silent after that, a heavy silence crushing on their shoulders. Sansa was beginning to think that this was a huge mistake, regretting coming here. What was she thinking? Mayhaps the estrangement between them was for the best, for it allowed unspoken things to remain buried. 

Painful truths could tear the skin of their bond until it bled things better left unsaid. She did not want nor need that. Everything about them, their relationship, their bond, the very knowledge of each other, it was as fragile as gossamer. Now, with certain truths coming to poke out their heads, even that small bit of connection could fracture. 

Just as the silence was beginning to gnaw at her, Sansa heard Jon sigh so wearily, she could feel it in her own bones. "I wasn't disappointed in you when I first saw you again. Not with you, at least. I was disappointed with myself." Jon's fingers went up to rub his temples. When they locked eyes again, Jon looked like he had aged twenty years in just two seconds. "I have...troubles remembering things. All this time, since I left the Wall, my memories have come to abandon me. They come back whenever they please, and when they do, it's vicious and poignant and confusing. I hoped that if I came to see you again, a piece of me would return in calmer ways. Memories, thoughts, anything that could help me find myself without feeling as though glass shards were being ripped out of my mind. But when I saw you again, I was...overwhelmed." 

"Overwhelmed by what?" Sansa implored, her voice breaking as she took hold of Jon's hand with both of hers. Again, he was clamming up. Tears pooled at the corner of her eyes. "Jon, we're family. Why can't you speak to me?" 

"I-I can't." Why did that hurt her heart so unbearably? "Not because I don't want to. I can't put it to words." 

"Then try!" Sansa pleaded. "What happened to you, Jon? What are you so afraid to tell me?" 

Jon surprised her then by cradling her face like she was a fine work of glass, looking into her eyes like he had done that faithful day. "Listen, Sansa. The truth will only hurt us both. I know you've been through more than most of us. I know you were desperate to see family again. I know, because I have been too." The pads of his thumbs stroked her cheeks lovingly. "We're all that's left of our family. I wish us to be at least cordial towards each other. If I tell everything now, that chance might break." His smile, weak and hesitant as it was, ignited a warmth inside her that spread all the way down to her toes. "Please, forgive me for what happened, it was never my intention to sully our reunion like that. Can we start over? This growing distance between us has been killing me slowly." 

Jon's explanation was vague, and frankly, unsatisfactory, but Sansa supposed they needed time to rebuild their relationship. A relationship. A whole lifetime of estrangement was a mountainous task to overcome. In her desperation, Sansa had started to expect things that were not wholly reasonable. Jon was the least close of her siblings. There was bound to be some hurdles and difficulties. He would tell his trials in due time. 

She loved him since they were children and she would have cried and mourned if he had died from a sickness or something, but to her shame, probably not as she would have for Robb or Bran or Rickon. Arya and Sansa were closer, even, and all they did was fight and bicker during their girlhood. Where she stood with Jon, Sansa honestly did not know. 

Yet, despite this all, a flame of determination sparked to life inside her. It seemed more like an opportunity rather than a problem. She could rediscover her bond with Jon, breathe new life into it, mould it into something strong and fierce. Perhaps something beautiful could come out of it, perhaps it could bloom into a lasting friendship. 

Sighing, Sansa allowed for her past lingering grudges and doubt to fade away. 

In order to make space for something better. 

"Fine then. Let's start over." Sansa said, curving her lips in a fragile smile as she clutched Jon's wrists, her eyes still throbbing with the prickle of tears. 

"It's all I ask for." Jon's hands left the edges of her face, letting them fall back to his lap. Ghost seemed to have tired of being excluded and joined in, his warm body wrapping around them, content flowing into Sansa at the intimacy of it all. 

Sansa would do anything to dedicate herself into creating a meaningful bond with Jon, one that she should have forged back when she was but a young girl. The bedrocks were there, they only needed to build it up stone by stone. 

"When the snow falls and the white winds blow..." 

"...the lone wolf dies but the pack survives." 

Sansa did not know how long they remained there, buried in white furs and each other's company, her head resting against Jon's shoulder. For all she cared, it could last forever, not yet ready to give up this sense of peace. 

"I told you, be careful with your sudden disappearances, Ser Jaime! If the King in the North sees you, it could spell many problems. For you and Princess Sansa!" 

That was Brienne's voice pricking open their little bubble, Sansa realized with a panic. Jon started moving in his place, on guard, Ghost too baring his fangs threateningly. 

"I don't care for King Jon's wrath. What will he do when he sees me? Feed me to his direwolf? I've been there, it's nothing special. And besides, I'm under the protection of the Vale, and he only brought two cohorts of troops with him, hardly an invading force. I think I'm safe here." 

Two figures emerged from the shades. Brienne was tailed promptly by Podrick, and at her side was the man Sansa went great lengths through to remain undetected. 

"What in Seven Hells...? Is that...Jaime Lannister?" Jon said in rising fury as he rose to his feet, Ghost by his side. "What is a damned Lannister of all people doing here?" 

Just as Sansa thought they were about to finally take off on the right foot, Faith seemed to frown upon her. 

How was she supposed to explain this? 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start speeding it up a little, because I'm getting feeling anxious that this starting to drag out.

_ **JON** _

"Why has the Vale been sheltering a Lannister all this time?" 

The most notable people of the castle had to be brought together in a hurry after Jon discovered that Jaime Lannister, the bloody Kingslayer himself, had been kept here in the Vale. Ghost had leaped to his feet, bristling his fur as he snarled at Cersei's brother while Jon was in the midst of drawing out Longclaw. If only he was not halted by Sansa's hand resting against his own on Longclaw's pommel, begging him not to lash out, he would have done something irrational. 

The fury raged still, but it lessened into a flame as he looked into Sansa's eyes, the blue of them shining like the fresh waters of the White Knife. It took him some time to rein it in, the outrage and utter disbelief, but soon enough, Jon complied and withdrew his hand from his pommel. 

Only to demand in a hot fit of indignation what the meaning of this was. 

Now, they were inside a room which had the Lords Yohn and Nestor Royce, Lady Myranda, Sansa and her sworn shield Brienne of Tarth, Ser Wylis Manderly and Lady Alysane Mormont. Most important of all, the person in question was present, and said person had opted to stand in the middle of the room like a man on trial instead of sitting, arms crossed over his chest as he smirked to all of them. 

They sat in a secluded place within a quarter of the Gates not easily accessible, a round chamber barren and stripped of any luxury, with only a circular stone table fit for all of them present. Guards were standing vigil outside, both Valemen and Northmen. What they were discussing was of a rather sensitive nature, after all. 

The question of Ser Jaime Lannister. 

He cut somewhat of a pitiful figure, Jon noted, never letting his dark gaze falter from the knight who was once the pride of House Lannister, the golden knight every woman wanted and every man wanted to be. His hair had dulled and his back was slumped slightly. The streaks of hair across his face were unkempt and ashen, his hollowed eyes glazed over and unsteady. Jaime kept gazing ahead of him, like he did not even try to register his surroundings. 

He was no longer a warrior in his primes. 

Jon sat at the head of the table, Ghost at his feet and Sansa next to him, fingers rapping against the rough surface of the table impatiently. She insisted on sitting next to Jon, nervously wringing her hands while she kept shooting him furtive glances. Jon kept his attention straight on the Lannister knight. 

"I'll ask one more time," Jon said with gnashing teeth. "Why has the Vale given a godsforsaken Lannister sanctuary?" 

Yohn and Nestor Royce looked to each other and exchanged hesitant glances, shifting their girth in their seats uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. They looked as equally at a loss by Jaime's presence as Jon was. It bothered him even more. Lady Myranda picked her nails clean, disinterested, throwing her eyes here and there every time the silence became like a sword hanging above their heads. The rest of the bunch just kept their silence, stoic and rigid. 

Jon click his tongue in annoyance at the whole ordeal. 

Truth be told, he was not really interested in either of these Vale nobles to explain this rather peculiar situation. Most of all, Jon wanted Sansa to explain to him what the meaning of all this was, but she held her tongue. 

Disappointment flooded his mouth and it was a bitter truth to swallow. 

"Fine then," Jon said forcefully, pushing his chair back with a hard shove as he stood up. All eyes were on him immediately, anxious for what he was about to do. "since none of you want to give me the satisfaction of answering, I'll ask the man himself. All of you seem to have lost your tongues. Let's hope the Lannister doesn't let me down." Jon moved his regard to the knight. "Well? Answer me, Kingslayer." 

Jaime Lannister may have withered in beauty, but his arrogance had not, letting himself smirk in these circumstances. "You've done well for yourself, Jon Snow. The King in the North." Jaime nodded his head in acknowledgement. "I must say, I am impressed." He feigned contrition suddenly. "Ah, my apologies, I meant Jon Stark. You've been legitimized, after all, so you could wear the crown of your...brother? Cousin? I honestly don't know at this point, it's all a bit complicated for my simple mind." 

"Spare me your fucking jests, Lannister!" Jon slammed his hands on the table, knocking down a few tankards. The lords had turned agitated enough to rise as well, but neither Lord Yohn nor Lord Nestor looked ready to go for their swords. They were at a crossroad, but Jon pressed on before they could resolve their minds. "Were it not for these people, I would have taken your head without a single shred of doubt. You have a lot of fucking nerve being here, considering what your traitorous family committed against the man I named my _ brother." _

Jaime's face hardened at that. A faint sign of disapproval flashed there, but it was gone quickly. "All is fair in times of war, Jon Stark, though I must say that I wouldn't have done what my father did. It's not how a warrior goes about defeating his enemies." 

"Is that what you've been telling these people? That you didn't approve of Robb's dishonourable murder?" Rounding the table, Jon came to stand face to face with Jaime Lannister. "Roose Bolton had done right by you. He had sent your regards with much affection. More than thousands of northerners, killed and then treated with the dignity of slaughtered pigs and you talk about chivalry." 

Jaime frowned, confusion colouring his green eyes before they widened considerably. The arrogance had all but left him, oozing out like bad blood from a wound. 

"What's the meaning of this, Your Grace?" Lord Royce finally spoke up, eying the knight with suspicion. 

"The Kingslayer has been one of the key accomplices in the conspiracy against the late King Robb." Ser Wylis revealed from his seat, the occupants of the room letting out a collective gasp. "He gave the order to Roose Bolton and had Robb Stark murdered under guest right." 

"A fucking lie if I ever heard one!" Ser Jaime denied harshly. "How dare you implicate me in something so vile!?" 

"The word of a Lannister mean nothing, Kingslayer. You're Tywin's own flesh and blood, the very man who went in bed with the likes of Roose Bolton and Walder Frey." Alysane Mormont glared, her spiked club on the table. "I lost my sister because of you. Your family have done us all a great injustice. The North remembers, my lord." 

"I name this untrue!" The armoured lady exclaimed suddenly, coming to hastily stand beside the Lannister knight. "Ser Jaime and I travelled through the Riverlands when the Red Wedding happened, and before that, he saved me from the Brave Companions. He's a man of many things, but a dishonourable schemer he is not. It would be impossible for the ser to have had a hand in King Robb's murder!" 

Jon regarded her a moment, taking her full appearance in. He had not fully scrutinized her, even if her presence was noteworthy, but as soon as his eyes fell on the lion's head of her sword, Jon went into a rage once more. 

"Lannister gold finds its way everywhere, it seems. Your patron's power spreads like a disease, Lady Brienne. Give someone a pretty toy and they'll swear off scruples and honour to defend your rotten arse." 

"Jon, please, Lady Brienne is a good and honourable woman." Sansa whispered softly from the side. 

"How would you know?" Jon retaliated sharply, Sansa cringing away at the bite of his words. It made his heart clench, but Jon did not take back his harsh stand. 

"You really are Ned Stark's boy, if not by name, then surely by blood. He would've been proud of you." The Kingslayer spat contemptuously, snarling. The lion was baring his fangs at the wolf. "As eager to wiggle your finger at others, standing there from your lofty place as an honest and dignified paragon of virtue." Jon glanced at him with barely restrained disgust, and the grin Jaime gave him made his blood boil to unimaginable degrees. "There it is, the face I've grown so used to. You all despise me. Kingslayer, Kingslayer, _Kingslayer_. Throwing your shits and insults and lies on me. By what right!? By what right does the wolf condemn the lion!?" The sound of a scoff echoed inside the walls of the chamber as Jaime shook his head before settling his gaze, those proud green eyes of his staring into nothingness. "Call me whatever you wish. I don't care. Man without honour, oathbreaker, say what you wish, I've heard it already, but I will not stand for being accused of something I had no part in." 

"Your Grace, the Kingslayer is clearly li-" 

"My name is Jaime Lannister!" 

"Enough!" Jon silenced as the room started to fill with the incessant din of arguing. More than a dozen set of eyes settled on his glaring face. "All of you. Leave." All of the occupants hesitated. "Did I not make myself clear? I. Said. Leave." Every word was punctuated with a hiss, and it finally spurred them to stand up and make for the door, including Sansa. 

"Not you, Sansa." 

Her back stiffened, rigid as a plank, her face turning around to look at him. The anxiety was plain on her face. As she made her way back to one of the chairs, Lady Brienne changed her path and remained at the door too. The anger inside Jon threatened to spill over. 

"With all due respect, Your Grace, but I am not yours to command. I'm Princess Sansa's sworn shield, and only she can command me to leave." 

Jon balled his hands into tight fists in order to restrain himself, but before he could give the blonde knight a reproach, Sansa raised her voice, nodding towards the lady. 

"It's fine, Brienne. You can wait outside for me." Her sworn shield looked ready to protest. "I'll be all right. There's no need for worry." The insistent tone of Sansa's voice finally convinced her, and she lowered her head in obedience. With a final look thrown Jon's way, a warning in her eyes, Brienne left them alone. 

As soon as the door closed, Jon opened his mouth instantly. "You didn't mention the presence of a Lannister in your midst _once _in your letters, Sansa. Well, it looks like none of those other lords seemed aware of this secret either. So, I ask again, this time to you personally, explain right now what in Seven Hells the brother of that vicious woman Cersei is doing here." 

Sansa bit her lip. "Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne rode to the Vale for me. Both had sworn an oath to my mother to keep me safe and secure. Brienne has done nothing else since." 

"I don't care about Brienne of Tarth!" Jon snapped. "Others take me, why are you not answering the question?" 

For the last few minutes, Jon had been repeating that quite often and it started to grate on his nerves. No one seemed too keen on answering, to Jon's frustrations. 

"I'm not sure myself what he's doing here," Sansa confessed tiredly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "other than upholding a vow to my mother, or so he claims, I don't know what he's doing here. Believe me, Jon, I truly don't know. The only thing I'm certain of is that Brienne vouches for him, and I trust her judgment. I have no reason to mistrust her word." Sansa eventually offered as an explanation. 

"No reason...?" Jon said in disbelief. "Are you blind? Have you not seen the sword she's carrying? She's paid by Lannister coin." Shaking his head, Jon went to sit down again, looking for signs of Ghost, but he was not where he had left him. Taking a look beneath the table, Jon found his trusty friend laying at Sansa's feet and enjoying a nap. _ Damn traitor...! Everyone seems keen on betraying my trust as of late. _

Grinding his teeth, Jon began to walk around restlessly instead. "I thought you were smarter than this, Sansa. After all the Lannisters put us through, put_ you _through, here you are, allowing Cersei's brother to roam as he pleases, like he hasn't caused our family so much grief." 

"You have no idea what I went through at the hands of the Lannisters. If anyone, I should be the one advocating for Ser Jaime's death." Sansa frowned. 

The tips of his ears tingled with annoyance. "Then why is he still alive?" 

That caused a dark look to cross over Sansa's face. "What would you have done in my place? Demanded that he'd be hanged? Or stripped him of his armour and have him suffer a hundred lashes?" 

Startled at Sansa's acerbic tone, Jon squared his shoulders and met her blue eyes head on. "It's the least he deserves." 

"Well, not all of us are vicious savages, Jon." 

Something cold took hold of his heart and squeezed. 

"...What did you say?" 

Sansa immediately looked like she wanted to swallow her words backs, those large sapphire gems of hers darkening in regret. Her posture was stiff and unbent, a straight lance with little desire to loosen. Jon looked away. 

He remembered Sansa's fear poignantly when he was about to unburden Ser Roland of a hand. Her eyes gleamed in fright, breath hitching ever so slightly as her trembling body stood between him and that reckless fool of a man. The texture of her soft hands against his chest cooled off the flames of wrath inside him enough for Jon to become mortified with himself. Not knowing what to do, mind at a scatter and in desperate need of solitude, Jon searched for a getaway. 

So, he fled. 

Jon did not mean for it to go that far, to allow himself to fight with the ferocity of a wild animal, but once the rage fused with his blood, nothing else crossed his mind other than the insatiable desire to have that lust for violence sated. 

Ripping Ser Roland apart limb from limb sounded like music to his ears then. Now, it shamed him to feel like he was some unhinged beast, even more so to be considered one by others as well. His heart dropped all the way down at the realization that people around him might fear to be in his presence, solely for the fact that he could lash out and hurt them. 

Was it perhaps the dragonblood in him? That damned bloodline tracing back to wicked creatures like Maegor the Cruel and Maelys the Monstrous? Was it Targaryen madness that made him feel so savage at times? Was he perhaps on a path of insanity since his resurrection? 

Jon feared the answers to those questions like he never feared anything else. 

Not even the march of the Others. 

Jon moved his back against the wall, leaning and folding his arms against his chest. He could feel the ache already swell beneath the bone of his skull, a hot and piercing burn that made him close his eyes in pain. 

He gazed down broodily. "You're right, I have no idea what you went through at the hands of the Lannisters. I just..." Looking at his hands, Jon could see the slight tremors going through them, muscles twitching like rats panicking at the sight of light. As he blinked, he thought he saw them coated red. It horrified him, heartbeat rising faster and faster. "I just get so irrationally angry at the mention of a Lannister, especially the Kingslayer. What he did to us, to your father, to Robb, to all of the Starks." Jon lowered his hands, enough of seeing them stained with blood. He grimaced. "Though, I suppose I've been an irrational creature for quite some time." 

"Jon, I..." 

"I had no right to tell you what you should've done in your situations. You did what you had to do." 

"Jon, please..." 

"Perhaps I should leave for now. My mind is not fit for complex talki-" 

Jon grunted as a pair of slender arms claimed him suddenly, the weight of a body crashing against him. He realized that Sansa had enveloped him a tight embrace, her face buried in his chest, tiny snivels leaving her. 

"Please, would it kill you if you just listened to me? I don't want this to be the start of our relationship. Not even a day has passed and we're already at odds with each other!" Her little sobs made his heart seize, tearing apart from the inside, and when she raised her face to look at him directly, the sight of her shimmering blue eyes on the verge of crying felt like a dagger slowly pushing its way inside him. 

Sansa's dainty chin trembled as she held back her tears. "You said it yourself, we're all that's left of our family. Our bond is already fragile as it is. I know next to nothing about you and so, I don't know what to say or how to act around you. What I do know is that I want to make us a stronger pair, not weaker. We have so many people working against us. I don't want us to be strangers, or worse, adversaries." 

Jon took a second to admire the beauty that was her resolve, how Sansa had grown into such a strong young woman who faced all kinds of trials and tribulations and came out kinder than anything else. Memories of the haughty young lady who sniffed disdainfully at everything below her pedigree did not quite match the young woman in his arms, even though they were one and the same. 

Sansa was kind even when she was but a girl, but that kindness went together with noble pride and obligation, like it was a rule carved into her person to be a creature of courtesy and duty. To reach this sense of genuine kindness, she must have seen a lot of wickedness and resolved to leave the world a better place. She was too pure for this world, too forgiving, too merciful. Too kind. Just like he once was. 

_Kindness will get you killed one day, Lord Stark. _

It already had. 

It would mayhaps get her killed too. 

"We need to start trusting each other." Sansa said as she regained control of her breathing, eyes still red-rimmed and puffy, yet giving her a certain strength that caused him to stand at attention. "We've been on our own for so long and that's no longer needed. We're a pack, and the pack endures," One of her hand took his, fingers twined and palms locked. "together." 

"I know." Jon acquiesced, placing his free hand against the warm column of Sansa's throat, the silky soft skin beneath his thumb pleasant to the touch. "Gods above, I know. It's just...strange. I've been on my own for so long, the idea of trusting someone feels...discomforting. So far, I've only allowed Satin, my steward, to be close, and even him I keep at a certain distance." 

Sansa increased her hold on him, her gentle auburn tresses tickling his nostrils as she rested her cheek against his chest. Jon inhaled the subtle fragrance of her soap, a soft scent that eased his nostrils into calm, lavender and rosemary if he was right. 

For a second, Jon knew not whether to wrap his own arms around her, a little stunned at the unexpected intimacy of this, but after much self-debate, he decided to chastely lay a hand against the back of her shoulder to bring Sansa closer. 

It felt...good to hold her like this. Sansa's body pressed against his was pleasant and comforting, a balm to an infected wound left open and unattended for too long. Before, Jon's heart rammed like a hammer against his chest, each hit resonating with the power of a smiting anvil. Now, it had lulled into a rhythm that was bearable and ordinary. With Sansa in his arms, it was as though the world was less cruel, as if it had finally ceased its relentless pushing. 

"For your own sake, get used to having me fuss over you from now on." Sansa said with a muffled voice, and Jon heard the tone he was so familiar with, making him smile softly against her locks. Perhaps a part of her haughtiness persisted after all. Jon would not have wanted it any other way. 

Soon, they parted, Sansa still clinging his elbows while Jon traced a finger over her cheek, brushing a tear away. They locked eyes as Jon grimaced. "We haven't resolved the question that is Jaime Lannister." 

Sansa lowered her eyes. "Let me solve it. He's been living here under my hospitality, and so, it must be me who passes a decision. For what it's worth, I admit that you're right. The reason of his presence here is tenuous at best." 

The warmth of Sansa's body left him as she went to open the doors. Jon took his seat again at the head of the table, Ghost trudging up to look at him pointedly. His direwolf canted his head at him, blood-red eyes flashing eerily. He thought as he scratched the large creature behind his ears that Ghost must have noted his disappointment. _ Being an arbiter suits him more than being a warrior. _

"Jon, there is something else before we continue." At the mention of his name, Jon made a low noise of acknowledgement at the back of his throat. "Please, refrain from ordering the Vale nobles like that again. The Vale is not part of your kingdom, and thus, its lords are not yours to order as you please." 

"Whatever you say." He answered back rather absently. 

"I mean it, Jon." Sansa insisted, not liking his disregarding implications. "Nestor Royce is the lord of this castle and his kin Yohn Royce commands a great deal of deference amongst the nobles of this land. They agreed to leave the room, fortunately for you, but surely, they must not have taken kindly to it. This is their home." 

Hearing the sense behind her words, Jon gave Sansa a solemn nod. "It was not my intention. You have my word that I won't act out of line again." 

Smiling again, Sansa nodded back and went to open the doors before beckoning for the guards to summon the previous inhabitants of the chamber. 

Lord Yohn marched with thickset steps, followed closely by his relatives Nestor and Myranda. They were the last to take their places, while Ser Wylis and Lady Alysane had already taken their seats. Brienne kept to Sansa's side at all times, and Jaime Lannister once again stood in the middle of the chamber, this time not so playful and full of himself. 

Once again, the sudden urge to throttle the Lannister rose up again. Jon was willing to cut someone down just at the mere sight of the Kingslayer, hands clenching tightly in an attempt to quench his ire. 

Just as the pain of balling his hands too tightly became apparent, Jon felt his ire wheeze out the moment a soft hand took hold of his fist and pried it open, lacing their fingers together. Sansa sat primly at his side, giving him a pleading glance and willing him to calm down. Jon remembered himself soon and did as he was told, reining himself in by looking at anything but the knight of House Lannister. 

"Ser Jaime Lannister," Sansa began, calling the attention of all the occupants of the chamber. "for several moons now, you've enjoyed the endless depths of my cousin's hospitality. When you came to the Gates of the Moon, I didn't know what to do with you, so I willfully ignored your existence." 

Jaime gave a snide smile. "How generous of you, my lady. I suppose this is the part where you're going to tell me when my head is going to roll? I'll be sure to pass down a note to your mother when I'll see hear that day." 

"Watch your tongue, ser." Sansa chided. "Your life is indeed in my hands, but I have no plans on having you executed." Jon drew his eyes to stare holes into Sansa's face, ready to speak up, but she did not allow him to voice his protests. "Yes, Ser Jaime, I will not have you hanged. You're much too valuable for the gallows. Instead, I have a task for you." 

Sansa gestured for Brienne to step up, which she did without pause. She then ordered her sworn shield to pull out her sword, and the sound of steel leaving its sheath permeated the air. 

"Do you see this sword?" 

"I'm not a lackwit. I gave her that sword myself." Jaime answered flippantly. 

Sansa sat straighter in her chair. "Your task is to travel to King's Landing and bring back that sword's twin. My family's heirloom was disgracefully split in two, and I will not allow for House Lannister to possess that which is my family's any longer. Retrieve Widow's Wail, and I'll absolve you of your oath to my mother." 

Jaime pursed his lips into a firm line. By now, he would have made a witty remark, Jon reckoned, yet the Kingslayer seemed to struggle with his words. 

"I refuse to go back there, Your Grace." 

Sansa shook her head. "That decision is not up to you, I'm afraid. You will be expected to leave within the sennight. I'll provide the necessary supplies for you to travel to Gulltown. From there, you will board a ship, sail for the capital and retrieve the other Valyrian steel sword owed to me and my family." 

With a gesture, Sansa ordered the guards to escort Jaime Lannister out. When they placed their hands on his shoulders, he reeled back violently, shrugging off their hold with a hard glare before stomping off. 

Peace had settled back inside, Sansa heaving out a large amount of air as she slumped back in her chair. 

"How are you sure the Kingslayer will honour his word, my princess?" Lord Nestor asked. 

"I'm not, Lord Nestor. Not fully, at least. I have half a mind to assign Brienne as his companion. Her, or some knights loyal to your will." 

"Princess, my place is with you." Brienne objected weakly. There was a clear sense of conflict inside the woman as her eyes chased after Jaime's exit. Was she having trouble with choosing between the Kingslayer and Sansa? 

"Nothing is set in stone." Sansa assured her. 

"We'll discuss the little things another time." Yohn Royce stroked his beard. 

"I must say, you are a clever little princess, sweetling. An interesting solution to our lion of Lannister's predicament." Myranda quipped, the usually loquacious woman finally breaking her silence. She swept up and made for the door. "This was all fine and interesting, but I'm afraid I need to organize a few things before the end of noon. Do I have your leave, Your Graces?" 

"My daughter is right. The assembly of Vale nobles and the Lords Declarant are on their way. Affairs must be tended to and quickly so." Nestor rose as well, followed by the rest. 

"What affairs?" Sansa inquired. 

Many affairs, Jon thought with a grimace. 

Not one to let intense emotions distract him, Jon and both Lord Royces had debated about a variety of topics the last few days, from the Vale's overpriced grain stocks to the circumstances regarding Robert Arryn. As the discussions dragged on, the two lords suddenly began advocating for something that did not settle well with Jon. 

Not well at all. 

With a hand, Jon helped Sansa stand up. "While you and I had our temporary misunderstanding," Sansa coloured at the reminder. It looked rather endearing, but Jon shoved it aside for now. "some things had to be concluded. I came here to retrieve you, that was my sole purpose, but as we kept discussing, the matter became larger and larger. Lord Yohn and Lord Nestor deemed the gravity of these talks too large to be just concluded between them, so they called a grand assembly." 

"A grand assembly for what?" 

"The future of the Vale and your position as Sansa Stark, rival claimant to the Kingdom of the North." 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too happy about how this turned out, but I didn't want to rewrite it from scratch. If I continued, it would start to look bloated, but trimming it would mean cutting out important parts.

** _SANSA_**

"I speak to Tommen Baratheon's and Daenerys Targaryen's claims to our solemn fealty! It is said that by Westerosi law, royal succession and reception of oaths, through unbroken continuation of lineage, thereby adheres to principles of good faith! We owe our allegiance to the rightful heir to the Iron Throne! Under the same law, it is also proclaimed that, in the event of a succession crisis, oaths will be renewed the soonest when a clear heir apparent emerges to rally behind...!" 

Mya sat in slight discomfort next to Sansa, a hand supporting her face as they listened to Lord Lynderly spouting on about the oaths of perpetuity Lord Hubert Arryn pledged to King Aegon I and how it passed down from vassal to king uninterrupted. "Begging your pardon, milady, but what's this all about, again? I find this story impossible to follow." 

Sansa snorted under her breath at her friend's genuine disinterest and started looking for a quill and inkpot. "I'll write it down for you. The lords have a certain way of speaking in circles. I too have difficulties following their descriptions sometimes." 

"No need to cramp your fingers for it." Mya said, covering a yawn with her hand. "The bleating of mules is more interesting than hearing this. I'd rather not torture my eyes by reading fancy words I can make no sense of." 

"Is that so?" Sansa spotted another yawn. "You have not been kept up last night by...other occupations?" 

Mya answered with a slight blush, grimacing. "There is nothing going on between Ser Pretty-Face and I. Randa is feeding you bollocks again." The denial was rather forceful, to which Sansa chuckled lightly. Those who protested too much were guaranteed to hide something, but Sansa did not prod about it further, content in watching the little dance Mya was playing with Jon's steward. It was good to see her dear friend so high-spirited again. 

Lothor Brune and Mychel Redfort had done her no good with their callousness. Sansa wished the best for her friend, and Satin proved to be a good companion. Although he exhibited certain characteristics not fit for a virile type of person, he was good-natured and loving. A little effeminate, but that was hardly a problem. A handsome and sweet-speaking young man with a penchant for gossip. What more could a girl ask for? 

"...to be the legitimate sovereign ruler of our lands!" Lord Jon Lynderly suddenly exclaimed, rousing Sansa's attention back to the discussion. It was a morbid display of ceremony. Lord Lynderly's monotonous speech brought the temptations of sleep to her and half of the nobles present, and were it not for the way he stretched the 's' like a writhing serpent, he surely would have lost the other half of his audience. 

"It is said that the law of succession, written in King Jaehaerys I's decree during the Great Council of 101 AC, the Iron Throne would not pass if the crown falls to a woman! Meaning, no rule left in the lineage of the female shall, by law, pass down to her issue! This infallible precedent renders Daenerys Targaryen to be unfit to be named our rightful sovereign! As to regards to Tommen of the House Baratheon! By virtue of his marriage to Cersei Lannister, King Robert Baratheon produced legitimate heirs in the forms of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen! Now, the law Westerosi, which is of Andal land, and because of said land's customs and laws, the throne and oaths of fealty would pass down to the firstborn legitimate son born through the male line! But Tommen Baratheon possesses no legal right at all to our fealties, because as you know, he is declared the alleged product of incest between Cersei and Jaime Lannister. Now, by the laws of Westeros, royalists have cited thrice the precedence of uncertainty to declare Tommen's legitimacy as such-" 

"Your lordship." Lord Royce interrupted. 

Disgruntled, the Lord of Snakewood acknowledged his interruption. "Yes, Lord Royce?" 

"This story of yours is impossible to follow." 

A series of guffaws erupted at the insensibility of Lord Royce's quip. By now, the quiet had died and a long intermittent exchange of words started. 

Lord Lynderly coloured in indignation. "I am explaining to you to whom we owe our allegiances, my lord." 

"Is that so? Is it your opinion that we owe either the Targaryens or the Baratheons our allegiance?" 

"Is there another, according to you?" 

Every lord had an opinion of his own on that matter. 

"Tommen is not right!" 

"The Lannisters control King's Landing and the south as a whole! Whether he's a bastard or not matters little now! House Tyrell has declared for Tommen as Lady Margaery is to wed him when he comes of age! They can decide whatever they will." 

"Are we to look at the Bollings or Wensingtons now?" 

"Edric Storm yet lives!" 

"You would rather follow a Baratheon bastard?" Lord Gilwood pointed out. "All trueborn Baratheons are dead, I tell you. Tommen is as much a Baratheon as his inbred brother. The Lannisters all but control the Iron Throne." 

"We must meet with the only remaining legitimate heirs!" Morton Waynwood said. "Aegon and his aunt Daenerys Targaryen have united their close claims the way only dragons can do. By marriage! What more could we ask for? Who else could we rally behind?" 

The imposing figure of Lord Royce marched upon the stone floor right to the middle of the great hall. "There is another!" 

The nobles of the Vale turned to the head of the Lords Declarant, just as eager to hear about this other person as Sansa. 

"When Robb Stark ignited his war to avenge the death of his father, the first who came to Lady Lysa's doors and encourage her to join forces with the Starks against the Lannisters were us. We've seen how they treat their subjects. Our liege lord was poisoned by the Lannisters. Robb Stark was our kin, distant though he was, and he took a dagger to the heart dishonourably because of Tywin's machinations. Some of you married your sons and daughters to northern houses. We share a greater bond with the North than anyone else. To me, the issue is obvious." 

"We've already heard your sympathies towards the Starks, Bronze Royce!" Morton Waynwood jeered. "The boy-king was bogged in feuds with his own bannermen! He had his own kin executed for killing Lannister cubs! Your inclination to sing their tragic demise at every turn has started to dull. So what, you wish to swear the Vale behind House Stark and break hundreds of years of loyalty?" 

"And why should we not?" Came the audacious reply. Sansa was surprised by this driven advocating for the Starks. Was Lord Royce ready to rescind his oath to the Iron Throne? What about House Arryn? Would the loyalty of House Royce mean that its overlord would fall in line as well? 

This caused a lot of heads to turn and debate amongst their neighbour fervently. 

Sansa sipped from her cup as the great hall filled with the voices of arguing Vale nobles. She let her eyes fall over the assembly as they gathered and took their place around each other. Sansa was zealously pondering what they were thinking about. Lord Lynderly and Lord Belmore were having a talk privy to only themselves, throwing cautious glances around Yohn Royce. 

Lady Anya and Lord Gilwood exchanged curt nods, the elder man stroking his beard as the Lady of Ironoaks gesticulated sharply, sometimes casting a fierce frown Jon's way. She could only guess why. The rest of the nobles found themselves in similar dispositions, convening with their peers around the Arryn court, a flock of sparrows parroting to each other about the latest gossip. 

Jon had his lips pursed in a thin line, sitting and observing as Valemen and Northmen debated. He had taken her advice to heart and kept his silence for most of the debates. If he had an opinion, he voiced it to her first, and most of the time she dissuaded him from sharing it. Not everyone appreciated the brutality of northern honesty. 

It earned her a fair share of scowls, but Jon listened to her all the same, and that was what truly mattered to Sansa. It pleased her to immeasurable heights that Jon lent his ear to her. She felt appreciated, she felt valued. 

Jon made her feel as though her presence mattered. 

After much debate, the din of arguing had settled down finally as the nobles tired of trading barbs and disagreements. Lord Royce took the floor again. 

"As head of House Royce, I recognize the royal authority of Winterfell and House Stark. My cousin, the Lord of the Gates, shares my opinion on this matter, and we stand united as supporters of our kin from House Stark. The lions and the dragons have wronged us all for too long, even before the War of the Five Kings. I remember clearly how Ser Elbert Arryn was murdered on the order of the Mad King. He was a good friend of mine own blood and meant to take my daughter, Ysilla, to wife. All of you have suffered by his hands. Had we joined the rebellion against the ill-born Joffrey, we could have made a difference. Now, we can only owe up to our cowardice and support those who deserve it." 

"Lord Royce speaks truly." Lord Benedar Belmore acknowledged. "The Targaryens are too volatile to be trusted. Dragons are not peaceful creatures. They sow no land, they reap no fruits. They only bring fire and blood. I can call House Stark of Winterfell my liege." 

Sansa sat and watched in bemusement as the Valemen muttered to each other. This was a tremendous occurrence, the ripples of which would be felt all across the Seven Kingdoms. Right before her eyes, Sansa watched a political shift the likes which Westeros had not yet seen. 

The Vale had just discussed open secession from the Iron Throne in order to follow House Stark. 

"I don't share your views, Lord Royce." Ser Morton said, beckoning for his knights to stand up and leave. "We are no oathbreakers. Our allegiance is with the Iron Throne, not with these piteous northerners. House Stark is not my liege, and it will never be so." 

Twoscore of Vale knights picked up their gear and made to leave, but as they saw how Lady Anya had yet to make a move, they ceased their movements. Morton glared at his mother, and the elderly lady hailing from Ironoaks met his defiant stand with indifference. 

"What's the meaning of this, Mother? You're siding with them?" 

Lady Anya narrowed her beady eyes. "I have yet to decide anything, Morton." 

"What is there to decide? The wildling lover over there brutalized your grandson! You wish to swear allegiance to those fools!?" Morton said, pointing at Jon. At her side, Jon scoffed at the inflated accusation. Roland had suffered a broken nose and a small cut where his throat met his chin. Hardly a brutalization according to him. 

"This is why you're thirty-and-nine and still not yet Lord of Ironoaks, Morton. Politics go beyond your head. When I die, I quake for my family." Lady Anya's face took a darker meaning. "Need I remind you that it was you who advised me to get in business with the likes of Petyr Baelish? The one time I decided to give you an opportunity to prove your worth, it blew up in my face like fire. Now, hold your tongue and let me do my duty to help preserve our place as prominent nobles." 

Morton Waynwood clicked his tongue in outrage. By now, half of the knights who initially obeyed his command took pause and looked at each other, unsure what to do. Finally, Morton left with only his closest knights while the rest remained to keep faith with Lady Anya. 

"I suggest a small break. The discussions have gone quite heated." Myranda said with a simper, clapping her hands, the household servants rushing in to tend to the numerous needs of agitated lords. Barrels and decanters were brought in to sate the thirst of everyone at present, be their taste leaning towards wine or ale, it mattered not. Sansa had prepared for them all. 

Sansa allowed a large amount of air to leave her lungs, breaking her stiff posture. "The day has just begun. I don't know if I can manage more excitement than this." 

"Don't talk like an old lady, sweet Sansa." Myranda tutted. "Isn't this thrilling? The intrigue! The exchange of arguments and accusations! Courtly life is so enthralling." 

"Perhaps for you, Randa." Mya chuckled. "I fail to see why these things matter so much. Nobles only care about who gets to rule that river or this forest or the rock over yonder. Give me a pair of mules and a long trek through the mountains and I'm sweet as sugar." 

"How insipid." Myranda rolled her eyes. "The conquest of power, that's a worthy game to play. We've gained many boons for our decisions." 

"And many boons are yet to come, my dear." Her father said solemnly as he placed a hand on Myranda's shoulder. He turned to Jon and nodded. "I trust that we will receive what we're due for our pledge of loyalty, Your Grace?" 

Sansa whipped her head to Jon and looked at him as he nodded back to the Lord of the Gates. "You have my word. The minor things will be discussed another time." 

That seemed to appease the Lord Nestor as he backed off and resumed to speak with his kin, the Lord of Runestone. 

"You've been scheming, Jon?" Sansa inquired. 

Blinking, Jon regarded her with confusion. "Scheming?" Sansa threw her chin Lord Nestor's way and he took the hint soon enough. "Ah, that. Well, I suppose I did. The Royces and I had a private talk. I would have included you, but..." They shared a clumsy smile. Sansa took no slight. They had started on the wrong footing, and it amazed Sansa that Jon had the presence of mind to go about his affairs with a troubled mind still. "As you know, Lord Robert is a minor, and not of the soundest of minds. Fearing his lack of ability, they approached me with an offer." 

"What kind of offer?" She prodded further. 

Jon grumbled, adjusting himself in his place. "They offered me the grains, knights and their oaths of fealty as well as the majority of the Vale's allegiance in return for something only I could give them, or so they said." 

Sansa tucked a stray lock of red behind her ear. "Which was?" 

"As a king in my own right, they asked me to invest them with the title of Lord Protector of the Vale, a cross between a few responsibilities carried by Lord Arryn himself and the wardenship over the east. The little scoundrel-" 

"Jon!" 

Jon coughed at her indignant retort. "Right, my apologies. Anyway, your_ esteemed _cousin is a bit too weak-willed, as you already know, and will likely stay as such for the remainder of his life. The Royce lords wanted..." He wiped off his beard with a hand. "...assurance, or influence, I suppose? I know not, and neither do I care much for it. My guess is that they wanted to strengthen their hold over the Vale. With this granted protectorship, Lord Yohn has full military authority over this kingdom. He wants to avoid a repeat of Lady Lysa's lack of bravery." 

"House Royce is on the rise. If this goes on, they might take over as Lords Paramount of the Vale." Sansa mulled. She had mixed feelings about that, but before she could elaborate on that thought, the matter of the Northern crown was brought after their short pause. 

This caused Sansa to bite her lip until she could taste a little bit of blood. 

Sansa was a mess of strained nerves since Jon informed her that many of the Vale nobles were talking about the question of the Northern succession. The rival claimant she was denoted, King Robb's legitimate heir, and thus, the rightful Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North. 

The proclamation made the muscles in her legs tremble and her hands quake as bad memories flooded her mind. Memories of mocking birds singing into the ears of ambitiously cruel lions, memories of her sham of a marriage to a dwarf who was eager to have her, a thousand sneers around as they watched how he draped her in decadent gold and crimson. 

Her fall from grace and the horrors that followed were all because of one thing; being the key to the North. Like a vicious nightmare, she had to see how it reared its head up again, this accursed privilege of being the key to the North. 

"Princess Sansa Stark is the only direct relative of King Robb left alive!" Ser Lymond Lynderly advocated. "By the ancient laws of Andal succession, her brother's crown is hers, not King Jon's! A sister comes before a cousin! That has always been the law of the land!" One camp propositioned, spearheaded by Lord Redfort and backed by numerous Vale nobles like Ser Lymond. 

"Your stand is weak, Ser Lymond!" Rodrik Forrester refuted. "King Edrick Snowbeard decreed in ancient precedence that the Crown of Winter would sooner pass to a distant son rather than a direct daughter of his house. Your Andal laws don't apply to us, for the northerners are of First Men blood, and we follow the laws of the First Men. We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark! A male Stark!" A series of cheers accompanied his words, the northerners flocking to his side. 

Her father's bannermen all seemed determined to rob her of her right, and it caused her ribs to dig into her heart to see them so fiercely opposed to her. Truth be told, Sansa did not even care whether she was the rightful heir to the North or not. 

At all. 

Gods above, she just wanted to go _home_. 

All her birthright had done for Sansa was throw her in the arms of people much too eager to turn her into a conquest, make us of her in the most humiliating ways and then discard her when her worth had expired. Since she left home, Sansa felt like she was nothing but a commodity which served a purpose. A tainted commodity at that. 

Being seen and treated as merely the object of lust and power had shattered any desire of Sansa to be a lord's wife, or anyone's wife. It was a big dream of hers, and it pained her so much to see that rot away. A festering bloom of bitterness had grown inside her heart towards the beauty of marriage, its thorns pricking her into doubt and hesitation whenever someone wished to marry her. 

Once upon a time, she dreamt of bearing a handsome young lord many sons and daughters, be his lady love and live a life worthy of the songs. Was that so much to ask? It was a dream every young girl held dear to their heart, but after King's Landing, after Joffrey and Petyr and Sandor and Marillion and all the other monstrous men who gazed at her with the glint of a hungry animal, Sansa's view of her own beauty and birth began to darken until it was nought but a black stain in her eyes. She wanted to rid herself of that so badly. 

Sansa contemplated sometimes indulging in excessive gluttony to fatten herself until she was as round as a pregnant sow, or drag herself through the muck and filth, smelling like things that would churn the stomach into a thousand knots. 

Anything to escape the lingering eyes. 

Cersei would have none of that, of course, always quick to sniff her nose at the slightest immaculate thatch. She wanted her son to marry a pretty dimwit who could bear him pretty children. 

Sansa wished she was born as baseborn Alayne, a girl who could marry some rugged woodcutter and live with him in his quiet hamlet, enjoying a life full of peace and plenty with her children and husband without the curse of nobility flowing through her veins. It was the only bright side as she masqueraded as Alayne Stone; no one who looked at her twice in lust. She was as valuable and noteworthy as a pebble. 

Now, her birth was sneering in her face again in the form of the northern lords denouncing her. 

Her throat had tightened up and her eyes stung with the pain of unshed tears. 

Jon sat next to her and crackled like a thunderbolt, seething in his chair hotly. Sansa's eyes were drawn to him. Her brot- cousin sat taut, brows creased together and jaws locked as he frowned ahead, the rolls of moving muscle and grinding teeth visible through the flesh of his cheek. 

Her fingers went to out to lace her hand together with Jon's, startling him awake from his seething before he quickly realized whose hand it was. Without pause, he responded by tightening his hold back. In such a short time, she managed to recognize the callouses of Jon's rough skin, finding it oddly familiar and comforting, as if she had known and enjoyed them for years. Now, she was clinging to them like her life depended on it. It was the rope she clung on to desperately in this storm. 

Jon spared her a concerned face, anger bubbling in those grey eyes Sansa came to find so much comfort in lately. He leaned in and whispered. "Should I intervene?" 

Sansa gave him a fragile smile and shook her head. "Let them speak. It wouldn't do to interrupt them so. Their pride would never swallow it." 

"Their pride can hang, Sansa." Jon responded with a frosty scowl. "I will not stand by and watch them do your name dishonour." 

"I'd rather marry a squid cunt than see the Crown of Winter pass down to _her _and her Lannister brood!" 

Sansa noted Jon's attempt to rise, fury carved over his face, and she increased her hold on his hand to ground him. "Jon, please, don't." 

"He deserves my blade upon his neck!" Venom dripped off of his words as he glared at Benjicot Cerwyn. "I've grown sick of these people refusing to see reason. Is it so hard to show a young girl some mercy? Are they even loyal to House Stark? By the gods, to hold you responsible for entering into a forced marriage angers me like nothing else." 

Sansa dropped her head, the wretched pain inside her stretching open further. "We must understand them. They fear a Lannister as their liege above anything else. If Tyrion had ever sired a child on me, and I was the only Stark left, then by right, Winterfell would pass down to me and his issue." Her temper blackened. "Not that I would have ever allowed him to get that far." 

"Your..." Jon swallowed heavily, unnerved. "marriage to Tyrion. Was it consummated?" 

Sansa sighed in relief. "No, thank the gods, Tyrion didn't touch me. He wanted to," A shudder ran down her spine as she remembered the gleam of lust in Tyrion's mismatched eyes battling with the conflict of bedding a young girl not even four-and-ten years old. "I could see that he wanted it, but I suppose he couldn't go through with it for some reason." 

"All the same. Your marriage to him holds no merit in the eyes of the gods, old and new. No one should be dragged against their will into a marriage." 

Sansa gave Jon's hand a caress, agreeing. "They see it differently." 

"Their opinions don't matter to me. These lords speak as if you're a threat, Sansa." Jon looked at her, truly looked at her, eyes staring straight into her soul. Her heart thudded a little stronger at the fierce outrage he showed on her behalf, her skin growing warmer and softer. It had been so long since she had an unconditional ally fighting on her side. 

Sansa smiled sadly. "But am I not a threat, then? My worth has always been tied to my claim to Winterfell. The Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Baratheons, even the lords of the Vale, they all value me for one thing alone. My lord husband would be named as the future Lord of Winterfell and perhaps King in the North even. Beyond that, I have little worth." 

Jon looked at her as if someone had shattered him from the inside, the glint of grey in his eyes coalescing like a brewing storm. Sansa had to look away lest she started losing herself in their depths and feel herself shatter alongside him. It killed her to put that thought into words, but it was the truth, was it not? The ugly, bitter truth of Sansa Stark. As painful as it was, her ability to sire the next ruler of the North was the only thing that kept her valuable. 

"No, I refuse to believe that." Jon said vehemently. "Damn the lords, damn their opinions, damn their desires and whims. Your worth goes beyond their foolish expectations." He squeezed her hand. "Take a hold of what belongs to you, Sansa. Fight for it. Don't back down." 

Staring at Jon in awe, Sansa could feel a burning little flame with the promise of something more burst to life inside her. A spark that ignited at the snap of a finger. Sansa felt herself burning up, a smouldering rise of inspiration coming to life and thickening her blood. 

She had never felt so empowered before. 

Regaining his self-control, Jon offered a terse nod, his thumb sweeping over the stretch of her hand's skin. Warmth bloomed inside her at the small gesture of support. His eyes shone with the same soothing grey shimmer as Father's, nothing but affection for her. When days became unbearable, Sansa longed for the protection of her father's arms. It comforted her greatly to see that Jon brought her to peace in a similar way. 

Jon looked like he was about to let go, but Sansa held his hand in a powerful grip, loving its warmth and strength. Its weight was like an oath, a knight's vow to keep her safe. She needed his touch now to keep her grounded. 

"Sansa Stark does not even enjoy the protection of House Stark anymore! She's a Lannister by marriage! Wed to that imp Tyrion, and any child born from her to him is a Lannister!" Ser Wylis supplemented as he gazed at her unflinchingly. "And thus, my lady, I tell you here, House Manderly will never allow a Lannister to rule over us. We do not want it, and we will not have it!" 

"Ser Wylis is right, though he speaks harshly." Lady Alysane Mormont said before she glanced at her with a hard look. "We mean no offence, Princess Sansa, we truly do not, but our enemies have given us no other choice but to shun you. The marriage between you and Tyrion Lannister proves you to be Lady Lannister by right, heirs to Casterly Rock and Winterfell. Your issues would not bear the name Stark. That is why we are so opposed to your return. We've all suffered from their actions, most of all your family. To see them then claim Winterfell like thieves in the night by a forced marriage, it would bring ruin and discord to us all. Surely, you must agree?" 

On and on it went, an endless cycle of patting each other on the back, until eventually, Jon got fed up with the whole ordeal and made to stand up. The hall grew silent as he took special care to stomp his fur-rimmed boots loudly on the ground. 

When Jon stopped, he looked at his own entourage stoically. "I allowed you to share your grievances. It is our way to hear out our bannermen before we make a decision, even if they drivel on foolishly. Now I shall talk, and you will listen." 

Silence fell over all the occupants, an uncomfortable one thick with tension. 

Until a sword was drawn and held in the air. 

"By right of conquest, the crown is mine, none who can refute that. I threw down the Boltons and made them suffer the consequences of treason. I've fought tooth and nail for Winterfell, for the North. I paid the price the old way, with blood and steel. It's mine to have." Jon pointed Longclaw her way. the thrum of Sansa's heart began to beat faster against her rib. "And thus, it's also mine to give away. You all claim that Sansa Stark does not enjoy the protection of my house? Our house? I name your statement false. There sits the one true heir to Winterfell and Robb's kingdom. Whom I bled for. Whom I fought for. A trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark! When I was offered legitimization and Winterfell in return for my fealty, the answer I gave King Stannis Baratheon back then remains the same." Dropping to one knee, Jon offered Longclaw to her. 

To Sansa, nobody could ever look more like a knight right now. 

Their eyes never broke when he spoke the next words that made a shiver role down her spine. 

"Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." 

The din of protest resumed, exploding like a casket of wildfire, the walls of the great hall trembling by the powerful noise. 

"Preposterous!" 

"You cannot be serious, Your Grace!" 

"You would give away your kingdom to a Lannister's wife!?" 

She heard them not. Sansa had only eyes and ears for the man kneeling in front of her. Jon inspired inside her a spark, and that spark blew up into an inferno. To see him come down on one knee and humble himself so. Jon awed her, he set her ablaze, heart and soul singing again as shards of her self-esteem slowly began to rebuild. Something shifted inside her, pieces of herself she missed since the death of her father coming back to her. _ Don't back down. Take a hold of what belongs to you. _

Sansa had become so sick of feeling like she was helpless. 

No more. 

Sansa knew what to do. 

Leaving her seat, Sansa approached Jon's kneeling form, to the disquiet of everyone. Crouching to his height, Sansa grasped Jon's bearded face with her hands tenderly, a small smile curving her lips, willing him to see the gratitude in her eyes. 

"As much as I love you for your loyalty, Jon." He faltered, confused at the words she was choking out. He sensed something was amiss. "I refuse your offer." 

"What...?" Jon did not anticipate this, a flicker of disbelief sweeping across his eyes. 

Before he could say something, Sansa came to rise to her full length and addressed the whole audience with a clear voice. "I refuse my brother's crown. I refuse, because to accept would mean throwing Robb's will into the wind. I loved my brother, and without a doubt he loved me as well. Even when he abandoned me to my fate, I loved him and understood why he did it. The North could not have passed down to a Lannister. He did the most prudent thing to disinherit me. The North could not have asked for a better leader than my brother. Now, I acknowledge Robb Stark's will. I recognize Jon as his heir. He liberated Winterfell. He avenged my family," Blue met grey again. "our family. To take away his rightful due would be an insult to his name. Just as Robb would have been a great king, so will Jon be. I recognize him as my king, from this day until his last day." 

"The King in the North! The King in the North!" The northerners chanted with boisterous roars. She only needed to look at them once and Sansa could see how devoted they were to Jon. How could she ever take that away from him? 

"Sansa, you don't have to d-" 

"But I do." She disagreed, cutting Jon off. To temper him, Sansa placed a hand on his arm. "Trust me and let me finish." 

With that, she turned her attention back on the nobles. "While I relinquish my claim on Winterfell, I reclaim something else. My pride and honour as a Stark. You all fear me for what I could mean for the North. I recognize your fears. They were not baseless." Sansa regarded Myranda from the sides, nodding. She smiled back with a mischievous little gleam, fluttering away from the hall. "But to hear you all condemn me so fiercely for something I had no power over, that is what truly wounds me." 

The northerners lessened in their enthusiasm, slumping and grumbling. There it was, the looks she wanted to see. Guilt. The members of Jon's entourage were looking like they were riddled with it. Some stood with their chests puffed out, not an ounce of remorse in their condemnation, but for a great deal of them, guilt and conflict addled their eyes. She understood what their fears were. 

Not a single bannermen of the North would ever accept a Lannister as Lord of Winterfell and their liege. A traitorous Bolton would have been sooner accepted as overlord. The obsession of keeping Lannister claimants away was reasonable, if not harmful to her. It went at the cost of her dignity. 

That, Sansa did not allow anymore. 

"Your fears are unfound, my lords!" Myranda chimed, returning just as quickly as she left. She held a parchment in her hands, the reason why Sansa sent her off. "Before dear Lord Baelish left to mingle with the devils below, he left us with a pretty little declaration. Satin, sweet man, please come forward and read what this declaration is about. I do love it so when that pretty mouth of yours speaks." 

Satin flushed when he was bawdily addressed by Myranda, sauntering over to stand next to her so he could pry the scroll off her fingers. He rolled it open and started reading, squinting his eyes a bit. 

"This is...an annulment." Satin stated after a bit of deliberation. "A marriage annulment between..." 

His eyes dilated as he read the names. 

Satin looked at her briefly, a small flicker of movement, before he resumed. "In the light and blessing of the Seven, I, Septon Garth, on behalf of a Council of Faith, hereby proclaim the marriage between Tyrion of the House Lannister and Sansa of the House Stark to be null and void, for the reasons of the marriage being unconsummated and performed under the existence of duress." 

Folding the scroll, Satin stared at his king in a way Sansa did not know what to make of. The only sound that was heard was the wind outside the Gates rolling down the mountains, its harsh pushes beating against the stained glass of the windows and bricks of the curtain walls. 

"This...this changes everything." Satin muttered as he wiped his forehead off with a kerchief. 

"Quite so. How clever of you to notice, sweet Satin." Myranda gave a saccharine smile with too many rows of shining teeth, linking her arm with Sansa. "Now that my beautiful princess is unwed, this little dynastic affair is easily solved." 

Sansa furrowed her eyebrows. "Solved? What do you mean?" 

Myranda quirked an eyebrow of her own, looking from her to Jon a few times. "Is it not obvious? I thought that was why your cousin came here in the first place?" 

"What are you talking about, Lady Myranda? Thought of what?" 

Now, Myranda looked truly confounded, tilting her head a little in that way which feigned ignorance. Something akin to dread started to pool in her stomach. Nothing good ever came when Myranda started drawing conclusions. 

"Why, a marriage between you and King Jon, of course." 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: I’d like to write the two sieges as separate one-shots, since I do want to put them to text

** _JON_**

An abundance of maps were scattered across the hardwood table, creased beneath Jon's fingers like the slopes of hills, a hundred different regions before his eyes. His tankard of briar ale had gone forgotten, still filled to the brim, black and ripely made for him by some ale brewery in Gulltown Jon had no mind to remember. 

Lord Nestor liked his ales sweet and sour, he shared, and saw it proper to share his tastes with his new liege as a form of homage. Jon liked the taste of ale, but to some extents. Now, he had need of a crystal-clear mind. 

The pieces of bread and slices of goat cheese had also started to grow stale. After a time, cheese would grow soft and warm as only cheese could get, a mould that was quite distasteful to have upon the slope of his tongue. Jon had dismissed the servants as soon as the plates were placed upon the table, brooking no disturbance at the moment, and his food had suffered because of his stern concentration. 

He had received a dozen missives from Winterfell, the majority of them penned by Lady Barbrey. As promised, she kept him abreast of all the affairs dealt with by his council. Tormund had returned to Winterfell, for instance, the loud-mouthed wilding chieftain making a giant ruckus as to where he was. Toregg had to drag his father away by the armpits before he chopped off heads with his axe in his impatience. Jon fondly shook his head at Tormund's antics. 

Other cases were less savoury than the visit of the wildling. His council was growing anxious at his prolonged absence, he had gathered from Lord Howland's letter. The northern lords kept laying down their complaints at Lord Manderly's feet, and the Lord of White Harbour could not keep the stacks from rising, capable as he was. 

Envoys from the Iron Bank had come too, Lord Tycho's associates, and seemingly kept demanding the King in the North to deal with them rather than his regency council. Lord Commander Emmet of the Night's Watch had also sent brothers to Winterfell, to take pulse about any additional support for manning the Wall, only to also be told that no king was present to receive them. 

On top of all that, reports had reached him of bands of brigands terrorizing the roads across the White Knife and the Rills, just above the marshlands of the Neck. Rangers reported that they carried the banner of the flayed man, marking them as remnants of Bolton loyalists who saw it fit to harry the people. When they were told to renounce their service to the Dreadfort, their refusal was met with Howland's branding them as outlaws. They had not taken kindly to that. 

Howland had growing concerns that these bandits had taken special care to set up camp around the highlands of the Dreadfort, House Bolton's former ancestral seat. Rumours had it that they wished to install Harald Bolton to his rightful place as Lord of the Dreadfort. 

The North was threatening to drown in its numerous problems. 

Jon was running short on time as days went by. 

Winterfell was crying out for a Stark. 

And yet, all of those issues had not provided Jon with the necessary distraction, for he was too busy picking apart his own mind still. The pretext of planning was only a flimsy excuse to shield himself behind from the outside world. The ghosts of troubling thoughts had plagued him for a few days now. 

His sis- cousin at the centre of them all. 

Why had Sansa refused what was rightfully hers? 

Why had Sansa agreed to a marriage with him? 

It had been thoughts that played at the forefront of his mind many times. Like the drawings of a book, they kept on flashing before his eyes; how Sansa's eyes trembled as she chastised the northerners, how she gasped at the mention of a marriage between her and himself, deep blue those eyes shone as she gazed and gazed and kept on gazing at him. 

Like he was the answer to all her fortunes. 

Jon remembered quite clearly how he reacted. 

* * *

_ "No.__..I __will not drag her into another forced marriage." _

_ The moment Jon heard the proposal spill over Myranda's lips, he already knew his answer and had it ready on his tongue. _

_ Lord Nestor's daughter fluttered her eyes owlishly a few times, looking at Jon as if he had grown a second head, an eyebrow quirked peculiarly. Sansa could not bring herself to meet his eyes, worrying her bottom lip as her cheeks started blooming red, surely mortified by the suggestion. His steward, Satin, was trying in vain to appear like did not have an entire eulogy poised at the tip of his tongue. He was dying to say something, so Jon used his enthusiasm as an excuse to have some privacy and dragged his steward by the shoulder somewhere a bit more secluded. _

_ "Your Grace," Satin gushed breathlessly. "it is my belief that we're presented with an excellent opportunity." _

_ Jon whipped his head towards his loyal friend, displeased, his face hard as steel. "Opportunity? Does this seem like a bargain at the fish market for you, Satin?" _

_ Dismayed, Satin shook his head lightly. "No, no, that's not what I meant, my lord." _

_ "Then what did you mean...?" _

_ Seeing his good friend flinch slightly caused a pang to hit Jon's chest, regret making him swallow thickly, but Satin had to forgive him for that. Nothing made Jon's blood stir quite so angrily than the thought of Sansa as the subject of mere opportune. _

_ She had gone through so much already, suffering the scorn and cruelty of both the south and the north, to be yet again seen as an opportunity would break her. To be powerless and at the mercy of honourless creatures. For how much longer, for the gods' sake? He had seen the pain shine back in her eyes every time the northerners denounced her, and it grated him. _

_ A small part of him saw the reason in all of it, saw the prudence and sense in their hostility towards Sansa, for they were not unfound in and of itself. If the gods had been truly cruel, Sansa would have borne a child by Tyrion, and with no other Stark left alive, her child would come to inherit Winterfell by law. _

_ Jon knew, the northern lords knew, everyone with a sense of political grasp knew, but by the gods, could they not show some mildness through their rejection? The terror and anxiety in Sansa's eyes at every mention of her being a Lannister by law were nearly enough to undo his composure and make him see red. How could they be so heartless? Was it perhaps the trauma that made them so? The distrust and hatred for anything associated with the name Lannister? If so, was it then fair of them to project that enmity onto a young and frightened girl? _

_ The greater part of him wished for nothing else than to vanquish that injustice, to see her safe and sound, so he did what he thought was the most obvious of choices. Jon knelt before his cousin and offered that which would have given her true protection. _

_ As Queen in the North, she would have all the power she needed to surround herself with enough shields and swords to protect herself from any unwanted advance. _

_ Then why would she deny it? _

_ "What I mean, my lord, is that this marriage would solve a great deal of problems for us." Satin said, tugging him out of his musings. "Think about it. Princess Sansa, like yourself, has a claim on the Northern throne. If you would fold your hand with hers in marriage, you would unite both claims." _

_ "I am well aware what our marriage would produce," Jon grumbled brusquely, gulping down the lump forming in his throat at the word 'marriage'. "but I tell you, Satin, I will not marry Sansa." _

_ "Why not?" His steward questioned, not unkindly, the lines of his handsome face wrinkled in confusion. _

_ "Why not?" Jon repeated. "Are you blind__? Would you have me force Sansa into another marriage? After all the horror and humiliation she's been through?" _

_ That brought some clarity to Satin's eyes and he stepped away a little, giving Jon much needed space. Heaving deeply, Satin came to clasp Jon's shoulder, the ends of his mouth curled into a soft smile. "I understand your reluctance, Jon, I do. You're a kind man to consider your cousin's feelings. It's why I admire you so." _

_ "What does kindness have to do with any of this...?" It was not about being kind that motivated him so, it was about being conscientious. What kind of man would he be if he jumped at the offer of taking Sansa's hand in marriage? It was wrong and unfair, to make her accept this. _

_ And that was not even considering the implications of their previous relation. By the gods, not a year ago, Jon thought them siblings. It would have been an affront, had they not known. Cousins, on the other hand, were allowed to couple, yet did Jon see Sansa as such? Did she see him as such? She would have to consummate a marriage with the man she once saw as her brother. _

_ Half, at least. _

_ His genteel half-sister with her sapphire blue eyes and sweet air about her and flowing mane of red hair. _

Would you bed your sister, Jon Snow? 

_ Jon thought of Ygritte then. His former lover. His former jailor. The memory of Ygritte was stricken with conflict and fondness. _

_ Nothing in common Sansa and Ygritte held, though, except for the fiery ringlets, and even that was like comparing beaten bronze to unvarnished copper, for Ygritte was as an untamed woman, taking what she could and not at all interested of other voices, whereas Sansa was a silent and demure creature of duty and courtesy, always mindful of how others thought of her, the lady sitting in a tower and brushing her hair. _

_ Ygritte was every bit kin of the free folk. Tormund once jested that if she had a pecker hanging between her legs, Ygritte would have stolen Jon herself, like the wilding men did their women. She took what she wanted. She took no pause for the sake of others. _

_ Then there was Val, the wildling Jon decided as the warrior princess, as fearsome as the tales say of Brave Danny Flint__. She would have made Arya shake in excitement. Val was not some willowy creature that brushed her hair in front of a looking glass and waited for her knight to come and rescue her, and for a time, Jon thought that was the type of woman he wished to see himself settled with. He was wrong. In the past, he desired perilous adventures. Now, he merely wished for peace. _

_ Satin crossed his arms behind his back. "Kindness has much to do with it. I know that you hold resentment towards those who've wronged Princess Sansa. Not many would take her feelings into consideration if they were provided with the same opportunity." _

_ Jon was growing frustrated. "What opportunity, damn you! Stop speaking as if I know what's going through that mind of yours. What possible benefit would this marriage give Sansa? Or me, for that matter?" _

_ Satin huffed at him, "Have you forgotten our talk with Lady Dustin? How she advised you to think very carefully before you take someone to wife? Well, look at your cousin. From what Mya and Lady Myranda have told me, she knows how to calculate, sway the minds of lords and ladies, provide insight in matters of state. On top of all that, she is very beautiful, probably one of the most beautiful women I've seen. I've lived in the Reach for a while, so I trust my judgment on pretty people. In return for all that, you give her what she desires most. Home and protection. Tell me, would it not make an excellent match?" _

_ It would, the realization came as swift as water through a cranny. A match that knotted as seamless as lace through a dress. It washed over him as if a bucket of cold water was thrown over his head, this sobering realization, one that made him pause and mull over the implications anxiously. _

_ When it came to Sansa, Jon had heard how capably she ruled the Vale as Lady Regent. She had a mind for diplomacy and knew how to make use of an abacus. Bronze Yohn had told him that, although her tasks were merely given for the sake of keeping Robert Arryn content, she nevertheless insisted on providing some other measures of assistance to the Lords Declarant when it came to matters of state. _

_ Barring her skills, Sansa would make a good wife to anyone fortunate enough to gain her hand in marriage. Jon remembered the radiant girl who dreamt of providing her future lord husband many children, always sighing how she would dote on them. Nothing else she ever spoke about since she knew the meaning of her duty. _

_ Motherhood was something she looked very much forward to rather than something she shunned. Jon had never heard her friend Jeyne talk of children or marriage so much and she had a few more years on her compared to Sansa. _

_ Arya spoke of children too, sometimes, but she spoke of how she would raise them as centaurs and ogres, always eager to become a warrior in the mould of Princess __Nymeria __or Queen __Visenya__, and while Jon loved to indulge her for who she was, it always puzzled him to hear her lack of desire to start a family for the sake of starting it. Was it not everyone's desire to settle down and start their own family? _

_ It was a desire which Jon held dear to his heart, even to this day, to one day have a family of his own, unlikely as it was. To hold a son of his own blood in his arms and __mayhaps __name him Robb. It was a long-cherished desire. He treasured it until he knew that a bastard had no hopes of providing a meaningful existence to a highborn lady, or any woman really. Jon did not quite let go of that dream until he came back from the dead. _

_ Would Sansa make an exceptional lady wife? _

_ She would, without a doubt. _

_ Did he deserve such a match? _

_ No, he did not. _

_ A mummer such as him, plagued by fickle memories, fiery tempers, born of lust and deceit, he had no right to claim such a woman as his wife. Would Jon be even capable of giving Sansa what she desired? Was he even capable of siring children? Were the undead able to plant seeds? _

_ "I will hear no more of it. As much as you disagree, I have no need for a wife." _

_ Satin rolled his eyes. "This again..." _

_ "Yes, this again!" Jon grumbled, combing his hair back with a hand. "A kingdom needs only a diligent ruler, and Sansa is more than able enough to wear the crown. I will try to persuade her still to accept the throne. It's rightfully hers." _

_ "And what about the question of her lineage? Surely, she must marry and give the North an heir?" _

_ A rare sort of void opened inside him, a nameless chill that Jon know not what to make sense of yet took possession of his bones, freezing them. "As queen, she would have the right to choose her husband. I trust she will pick wisely." _

_ "Seven above give me strength...why are you making it so hard for yourself?" Satin asked, a tone of pity laced through his voice. "It always looks like you're going out of your way to make things unnecessarily difficult. You refuse to eat when your body needs sustenance. You reject sleeping when your mind needs rest. Why? Why are you trying to run yourself into an early grave?" _

_ "Enough." _

_ Satin's questions were too sensitive, hitting too close, rattling him to the core. He tried his hardest not to clench and unclench his burnt hand, a tricky habit he picked up when frustrations were starting to become razor-sharp, pressing against his throat like a collar of daggers. _

_ There were no answers to his friends' questions. At least, no answers that would offer him comfort. Nobody knew the conditions of his body in great detail, and if they ever figured it out, they would brand him an abomination, a wrecked creature spit out of the abyss. __Because what man could call himself whole and living if he was littered with wounds meant to put a man down forever? Sansa deserved much better than that. _

_ Seeing that he was getting nowhere, Satin decided to forfeit the fight and slumped his shoulders, heaving a sigh loud enough to wake the dead. With one last look of sympathy, he nodded and returned to the great hall, Jon falling one step behind him. _

_Jon knew where Sansa was before he even saw her and promptly pushed his way through a throng of nobles. She was standing there, Lady Myranda by her side like a strong pillar to lean on. _

_ Her eyes met his, and Jon had prepared a hundred arguments to dissuade the nobles present of this folly. _

_ The chance was never given to voice them, because as soon as they stood opposite of each other, Sansa opened her mouth and spoke with a voice as soft and warm as summer winds. _

_ "I agree to this marriage." _

_ The air had all but fled Jon's lungs as her soft-spoken voice washed over him. She answered so readily, so confidently, no doubt in her lilt, delivering the line with one fell swoop like a sentence. It floored him. It rendered him quiet for a moment. _

_ Looking at her, Sansa's voice seemed solemn and determined, the spitting image of poise, and any person would think that she had no doubts about this, that she wanted this, but Jon was sharper than that. He knew that something was gnawing at her conscience. _

_ Those Tully eyes gleamed, swilled, moved and settled. _

_ Sansa's eyes were brimming with doubt. Her heart was not in this fully. _

_ "Why...? Jon needed to know the answer behind her acceptance. Desperately. "Why would you agree to this? Why bind yourself to me like this?" _

_ Her ashen face seemed ready to crumble, but she held herself steady, the veneer fragile but still holding by the seams. Barely. "Because I trust no one else but you." _

_ Jon hardened, even when those words tugged at his heartstrings. He could not let them blind him. "Your trust is misplaced. Trust yourself instead. Accept the crown and give yourself the liberty to choose." _

_ "But she is trusting herself, is she not? Is she not trusting her judgment?" Lady Myranda thought it proper to smirk, amused and intrigued, twirling a lock as she gazed coyly at him. "Or is it __mayhaps __that you're eager to relieve yourself of your royal burdens, which is why you're so willing to give away your crown? Come now, sire, I thought you were a man of duty." _

_ Flaring his nostrils, he was about to scold the young woman for her cheek, but Jon was taken aback as he felt a pair of small, tender hands taking hold of his. _

_ Sansa always had a smile as soft and lovely as the velvet and silk she loved to wrap herself with. Very few times she bestowed them upon him in the past, and now she did so again. It made him falter. _

_ "What difference would it make if I were to be queen? I would make the same choice. I know you're trying to protect me by offering me independence, but I've made my choice. This is my choice. I choose this. I choose you, for no one else will protect me the way you will." Let the gods be witness to that. No truer words were ever spoken. _

_On the verge of tears, Sansa came to say the next few words like one of those prayers in a sept. "So please, marry me, Jon." _

_ Jon wanted to refuse and tell her that it was folly to marry him, that she could do much, much better, but as soon as he looked at those eyes full of hope, it was impossible to put up a fight further. All Jon wanted was to give her a choice again, so she could protect herself. _

_ But she had chosen differently. _

_ She had chosen...him. _

_ "Very well, then...I'll marry you in front of all the gods and take you as my lawful wife." Jon nodded, his palms feeling the soft warmth of her dainty shoulders. It would not do to deny her in front of all the lords and ladies of the Vale and bring Sansa embarrassment. He would find another time to gently persuade her to change the course of her mind. _

_ Even if the idea of being married to Sansa made his heart race a little faster. _

_ Even though Sansa's hand caressing his cheek felt like the mark of something promising. _

* * *

Three days had passed since then. 

Jon still had not made an effort to dissuade Sansa from this marriage, to his utter shame. In his defence, he found neither the will nor the time to do so, for both he and Sansa were preoccupied with other affairs. 

_Liar... _

His quill scratched out of line at the sudden move of his twitching hand, courtesy of his disoriented mind. Taking a cloth, Jon wiped his fingers and palm clean of any ink, continuing his pondering. 

While ample in her presence, every time Jon had gathered the courage to hold forth the subject, his bravery failed him when those bright blue eyes took him in, still the same hope shining there, a smile upon her lips that reached the eyes. Eyes that seemed powerful enough to ensnare him like a spell. 

Jon ought to be disgusted with himself for not finding the possibility of marrying Sansa to be repulsive. She was raised alongside him as a sister, yet, as he thought about it more and more, the mere idea of it was so...enticing. And again, the utter shame would scald him like a fire, putting him in his place. 

Gods, what was happening to him? 

Sansa had taken this decision out of pure necessity, he was sure. She saw no other way out, so she chose to be wed to him in order to secure her place in this grim world. How dare he find a modicum of satisfaction out of this arrangement? 

"King Jon! Our sincerest apologies for making you wait." 

The doors creaked open, a guard holding it ajar as Lord Nestor Royce, Lord Benedar Belmore, Ser Symond Templeton and another man Jon know not stepped inside. The Lord of Strongsong was a plump creature of gluttony, the seams of his violet doublet and cotton trousers looking ready to burst. Crumbs were gathered in his unkempt reddish-grey beard, and those fat hands of his held up his potbelly like he was heavy with twins, or triplets even. 

Symond Templeton, on the other, sported a leaner build for a knight, though elderdom still coloured his beard with streaks of grey. Whereas Sansa had eyes as blue as a river, Symond's eyes were cold and shimmering as chips of ice, reflecting his dourness. Lord Nestor, Jon already had himself acquainted with, so no further observation except for the gleaming little pin on his breast attracted his attention. 

The last man brought him pause as Jon continued to write his letters as he said. "Settling well in your seat as Lord Protector?" 

Inclining his head, Lord Nestor grabbed the nearest seat to Jon and folded his hands, placing it on top of the table. "I only wish to do my duty to Lord Robert as well as I can. We don't want our lord to remain feeble for eternity." 

Giving a noncommittal sound, Jon finished writing his letter, folded it four times and poured sealing wax on top of its crease before he set it aside. He would stamp it later. "Robert Arryn has many...complications, Sansa told me. Does his maester attend to him well enough?" 

"Maester Coleman is gifted in what he does. We have the utmost faith in his knowledge. But, with all due respect, Your Grace, Lord Arryn is not why I've asked for this meeting." 

"Truly?" Jon shoved away his quill, inkpot and missives-to-be, settling his full attention on the Lord of the Gates now. "Then, by all means, explain why you asked for my note, but first, tell me who this man is. I'd like to who I'm additionally taking into confidence." 

The nameless man stepped forward. "My name is Donnel Waynwood, Your Grace, I serve as the Knight of the Gate." The name Waynwood made Jon furrow his eyebrows. He had few good experiences with that family, and this ser seemed to know that too, based on his subdued expression. "I am well aware of how both my nephew and brother have acted towards you, my lord. It's not my intention to emulate them. Roland and Morton have always been...hot-headed bulls. Gods above know how much my mother laments how they've turned out." 

"I can vouch for that, King Jon. We always made it a condition for the Knight of the Gate to be a man worthy of trust. Someone who thinks before he acts. Donnel is a good and honest man, he'll do right by us." Lord Nestor said. 

"Good, then we'll get along swimmingly." Jon nodded. "Now, let's talk about why you asked for a meeting." 

Some ruffling of papers later and Lord Nestor placed a map in front of his eyes. Jon recognized the Trident and its tributaries immediately, letting a finger trace the Green Fork all the way up till he hit the Twins. His mood darkened. 

"What are you trying to explain to me, Lord Nestor?" 

It was Ser Symond who answered. "Sire, the majority of the western Vale nobles have frequently married with Houses Roote, Cox and Mooton amongst other nobles. Just as we share blood with some of the Northmen, we also share blood with some of the Rivermen." 

He was starting to understand. "You wish to mount an offensive on the Riverlands?" 

"Not an offensive, sire, a liberation." Ser Symond corrected. "The Vale has yet to participate in any conflict. We're fresh, unblooded and eager to repair our reputation. The knights of the Vale are at your command, this is true, and thus, we wished to offer you a reason to use them. Our kin in the Riverlands are in desperate need of our help, and it shames me that only now we've started to make preparations to aid them." 

Already, a very important reason came to mind as to how Jon would use the knights of the Vale, but he was not so sure whether they were willing to heed his command readily. Sending reinforcements to the Night's Watch was one of his highest priorities. Whether the Vale inclined to agree was another matter. 

But...Jon saw the merit of this suggestion. Liberating the Riverlands from Lannister and Frey rule would bolster the legitimacy of his repute greatly as well as free the lords who had once sworn fealty to Robb. It was Lady Stark's ancestral lands, and she still enjoyed a great deal of deference, even in death. 

The Riverlords had sworn themselves to Robb and proclaimed him as King of the Trident, and while Jon did not wish to have himself crowned as such, the Riverlands were a part of his kingdom, and thus, Sansa's kingdom. 

The decision was made. 

"How many men can you muster, my lord?" He had torn off a piece of paper and gave it to Lord Nestor. 

Lord Belmore decided to let himself be heard. "Our total estimation would be around the likes of five-and-forty thousand swords, Your Grace." 

A considerable amount, Jon concluded, humming in thought. "All your banners will amount to five-and-forty thousand?" They all nodded. Jon deliberated further in thought, caressing his chin as he stared at the map of the Riverlands. If he were to divide that number in equal numbers, each goal in his mind would require five-and-ten thousand men; five-and-ten for Riverrun, five-and-ten for the Twins and five-and-ten for the Watch. That would leave the Vale utterly defenceless, however. 

On the other hand, there were only a few ways to enter this kingdom without much effort. The Bloody Gate was the only known land route, and closing the harbours of the various port towns would effectively halt any naval advance. If he ordered a remainder of nine thousand to stay stationed in the Vale, that would be enough to protect the borders from any retaliation. 

"Very well, then. Call your banners and assemble this army. I will offer my support in planning this campaign. As much as I wish to take part, the North has need of me, so you will have to assume command yourself." Nothing would have pleased Jon more than to storm the Twins, drag down Walder Frey from his perch and cut his head off personally, but fate would have him somewhere else. 

"Worry not, Your Grace." Ser Donnel smiled winningly. "We have excellent commanders at our disposal to lead the effort. Bronze Yohn will lead the campaign, I've been told. And a few...rats who know the intricacies of the Twins intimately will also give their support." 

"You see, sire, Ser Donnel's squire is a Frey, unfortunately. Well, fortunate for us, but unfortunate for those dishonourable scoundrels." Lord Belmore grinned beneath his beard. "Not all Freys agreed to what happened during the Red Wedding. That accursed family is so big, the coats of those rats have started to take different colours. Some are a little more honourable than others." 

"So, I can trust this effort in your hands, my lords?" Jon received a series of nods, and with that, he was satisfied. "Then forgive me, I have a few other affairs to conclude." 

"Ah yes, your upcoming wedding." Jon's fingers stiffened as held his quill, ink dripping from the tip. "We would not like to keep you up for much longer. If there's anything else, please, call for a servant. We're here to serve at your pleasure." 

The door closed with a thud, dust setting off from the hinges. Jon slumped back in his chair and rubbed the fatigue out of his eyes. 

Just as he was about to forget that prospect for the sake of inner peace, he was harshly reminded that on the morrow, Sansa and he would stand before the gods and swear themselves to each other for the rest of their lives. 

He honestly knew not whether to should hide beneath a rock. 

Or thank the gods for this. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I changed the rating to E, just to be safe. It's the long-awaited wedding. From here, we're finally going to leave the Vale and get into our second part. Also, this is the first time I've reached 100k for a story! Yay!

_ **SANSA** _

_I wish Mother were here to see me... _

The white satin clung to her body snugly, Sansa noted, as she kept gauging herself in the looking mirror and tried new angles now and then, intent on searching for creases that were not there. It was not made of stifling material or anything of the like, the fabric soft, light and smooth as the skin of a newborn babe. It felt as if she wore clothes made of freshly spun snow, pure and immaculate. It made her feel pure and immaculate. For the first time in years, Sansa felt pure and immaculate again. 

Her heart sat like a rock in her chest, heavy like a secret, for she knew not what to make of today. The nature of her wedding was solemn, organized in the light of necessity, though it provided her a measure of comfort in knowing that she was not the only one a little frightened today. 

The amount of times she had dreamt of wearing her wedding dress was impossible to determine. Sansa had imagined this day so many times during the nights she laid underneath the thick furs of her girlhood bed, she even knew what the colour of her shoe laces would be or how rusted the hinges would sound when she exited the great keep to make her trek to the sept. The starry-eyed girl with her innocence and hope, the girl who viewed the world as green and beautiful and full of life as the fruits of spring, would finally come to see the day of her life she dreamt the most of. 

Weddings were always the things she daydreamt about; the pretty garlands over the weirwood trees, candles around the castle, the great feast which lords and princes came from all the corners of the world for, comely guests smiling down at her and wishing her many sons and daughters. 

Her beloved lord father would guide her down the aisle and allow for her husband-to-be to throw his cloak over her shoulders in the passing of protection rite, while her lady mother would stand just a little to the left of Father, winking away her happy tears. 

Robb would be there too, an arm around his own beautiful wife, smiling as he bounced his son up and down. Sansa imagined Rickon running through the throng of guests and dashing beneath the tables, his hair as much a rat's nest as Shaggydog's fur, the wild direwolf snapping at his heels. Bran would sit in a tree as he kept his nose buried in a book, smiling boyishly at the knightly tales he was reading. Arya would be there too, shrieking and grinning, free as a sprite, and Sansa would remind herself to never love her less again. 

Even Jon would be there, as Lord Commander of the Watch or a famous knight or something else of great repute, tall and finally proud of himself, swathed in his cloak of night he was so fond of. 

Most important of all, she dreamt of how her lord husband would look like. Tall or short? Burly or lean? Beautiful or handsome? Back then, those things mattered greatly to her, but now, she only wished her husband-to-be had a font of kindness inside him. 

It seemed the gods settled for taller than her, at least. Lean, he was indeed, lean and solemn as a sword. Beautiful? Sansa had to only listen in on the titters of maids and ladies alike and she would come to know how roguishly handsome the King in the North was considered in his white furs and grey garbs, the frown on his long face severe enough to cow seasoned warriors and fluster ladies twice his age. 

And kind? Jon had always been a kind person at heart. 

Sansa still remembered the little dove he found when he was a boy of one-and-ten, cradling the poor creature with the utmost care, scared of hurting it further. He gathered its fear-stricken body from the hard ground and made for a small bush before he made a nest out of twigs and leaves and a part of his fur collar. Sansa had just roamed about the godswood idly, bored of waiting for Jeyne to arrive with her father from Coldstream Manor, only to quickly duck behind a tree when she stumbled upon him doing his work. 

The creature had injured its wing, and so, Jon came down every day to feed it seeds and bread, nursing it back to health until one day it spread its grey wings and took for the skies again. That little act of kindness remained with Sansa forever. For his efforts, she knitted a new pair of riding gloves since his old ones had torn during a hunt. 

It was done and given in secrecy, a clandestine little quest towards his room, placing the gloves beneath his pillow when he was away, for Sansa knew not how to approach the one sibling she regarded the least, the heart of a prideful girl preferring the anonymity than facing the embarrassment of praising people she normally never praised. Life had a funny way of turning out. Sansa would now give him the greatest praise a natural born could ever hope for. 

Marriage to a highborn lady. 

Never had one of Sansa's dreams come out like today, but at least one person in attendance did not fail her in being present, yet instead as a sworn brother, he would come and swear himself as her lord husband, accepting her hand in marriage. Her hand and her name. Jon already had her name through legitimization, but they agreed on this part to consolidate Jon's legitimacy as King in the North and a member of House Stark. 

The first time their marriage was brought up, Sansa expected sheer disgust to rile her up and immediately deny the match, for what else should she have done? Jon and her? Bound in holy matrimony? The very idea should have mortified her. Right? 

Sansa would come to discover that it was not so. The gods had no desire to torment her with feelings of utter aversion and humiliation. To her surprise, it brought her only comfort. Yes, Sansa was frightened as well, to some extent, but it was not the same as when she was forced to marry Tyrion Lannister. 

This fright came from somewhere else. She was not afraid of Jon, no, and Sansa reckoned she could never be afraid of him. Sansa was afraid of something else, something that made no sense to her, something inexplicable and primal. Mayhaps this fear was normal for a girl about to swear a vow of eternal loyalty? It felt normal, this fear at least, like it was meant to happen like this, the same way rain would fall down from dark clouds or fertile soil splitting open and giving bountiful crops. Was it even fear? Sansa could only wonder... 

Married to Jon...it did not sound so bad. 

"Mother Above have mercy! You look positively resplendent, my dear!" Myranda chimed as she sashayed into her chambers unannounced, garbed in bronze and purple-coloured clothes, a black ermine fur collar wrapped about her neck. Ser Isembard and Ser Jasper lingered at the entrance, unsure whether it was proper to step inside or not. "Lady Lysa's old clothes seemed to have served a purpose after all. I can only imagine how many heads will turn at the sight of you!" 

A smile as soft as silk graced Sansa's face as she glided a hand over her white sleeve. "The seamstress did an especially fine job with what she was given." 

Her wedding dress had been an item knitted from scratch. Sansa thought there was not enough time to fashion a new wedding dress in the span of a sennight, but as always, her friend and her knack for making the impossible come true, crafted a work so splendid, Sansa had to wink away a tear. 

Her friend kept throwing out all of her aunt's old clothes in zealous search of white silk and satin until she felt she had her fill. The result of her quest was the discovery of enough silk and lace to knit a new dress for Sansa's wedding today. 

It came about as a wonderful dress, frills hanging at the end of her pleated skirt, the bodice and sleeves laced with silver embroidery, woven into it like a weirwood with its tree branches spreading about. To give it a more northern touch, Sansa insisted on sewing a white fox fur across the collar. 

Myranda bounced on the heels of her shoes around Sansa's chamber, coming to twirl around her and keeping an eye on the dress. As she scrutinized, Myranda gave a few little hums in thought before she ultimately stopped behind her and snaked her arms around her waist. 

"You give her too much credit." Myranda's chin came to settle on the slant of Sansa's shoulder, her warm breath tickling her ears. "Was it not I who provided the necessary materials? Give me some praise too, ungrateful woman!" 

Her friend's whiny demand made her snort, and Sansa would have to forgive herself for such an unladylike action, for she would never grow accustomed to Myranda's eccentric behaviours. 

Sansa patted the hand pressed against her stomach. "Tearing apart garbs of the finest qualities and throwing them around sure asked for a lot of exertion." 

Myranda poked her with a dainty finger, knowing how ticklish she was. "I said praise me!" 

"Fine! Fine!" She giggled, conceding after a few hard pokes as she was no longer able to endure Myranda's onslaught. "You possess a great eye for fashion! There! I said it!" 

"Good enough, I suppose." 

Picking up her brush, Myranda started straightening out her hair, which was still a little damp from her bath earlier. With a few hard strokes, her locks finally tamed, free of any tangles. 

"What kind of hairstyle, darling? Shall I make it daring? Or demure? Ambitious? Regal? I do love to twist that hair of yours across my fingers." Myranda's dexterous fingers kept playing with her tresses, pulling at some locks across the crown of her head. 

Sansa had no desire to show herself southron, for a change. She wanted something more simplistic. "Plait it for me, Randa. I want a simple northern braid." 

"Really?" The surprise was thick in her voice, and she sighed in disappointment as Sansa nodded. "How boring..." 

Myranda distanced herself when she was done tugging at her hair into a long and inornate braid, picking up a couple of vials from Sansa's vanity table next. "Strawberry or apple? What do you think dear Jon would like?" 

Her nerves spiked again at the mention of Jon, her tongue heavy in her mouth all of a sudden. Myranda must have taken note, for she rose and settled behind her, hands coming to soothe the muscles of her shoulders. "Don't tell me you're starting to get cold feet...Jon is far too handsome to be jilted like that." 

"I'm not," Sansa answered with a sigh, flitting a hand up to lace with Myranda's. "but I'm allowed to have some jitters, right? This is my wedding day, any girl would find a day such as this one daunting, and mine is a great deal more...complicated than others." 

Not for the first time, Sansa dearly wished her mother was here to provide her with some comfort. Her kind lady mother would have offered her wisdom and tell Sansa that a day such as today was one to be cherished, one to be savoured and forever held close to heart. 

A girl's wedding day only came once in a lifetime. When she was young and dreamy, Mother brushed her hair as she talked about the sanctity of marriage, the vows of loyalty and trust a husband and wife would use as the foundation of a fruitful marriage. She would always sigh at the end of each reprise, already in love with the institution and not needing any further reminders. Now, that fated day had finally come, but the circumstances remained a source of confusion. 

Myranda tutted. "Don't be boring, darling. I have Mya for simplicities. She's the one you should talk to about ordinary stock. Some complications in life are necessary. And fun, too!" 

Sansa could feel her eyebrows come together in a frown, disagreeing. Her disapproval must have oozed out of her, for Myranda pursed her lips into a thin line, looking a little contrite. Squeezing her shoulders, her friend soon returned to her usual bubbly self, her titter sounding amused and mischievous. 

"Would you like to hear how my first wedding went?" Sansa's interest was piqued, to say the least. Myranda's vivacious behaviour must have surely caused a lot of fuss. Sansa also was in dire need of information on what to do on such a day, when the groom and bride were to retire and... 

Her marriage to Lord Tyrion was a blur as Sansa paid no heed to anything around her, too consumed with fear and humiliation to register what was happening. When they were left to their own devices, Sansa had seen how he stripped himself, his prick coming to life. 

Fearing the lust in his eyes would take over his conscience, Sansa all but whimpered her pleas for Tyrion not to go through with the bedding. It had never happened, thank the gods, for Tyrion had seemed to have gathered his decency and accepted her refusal of a proper consummation. It haunted her to this day. 

And yet... 

And yet, that did not mean the curiosity about it was not inside her. Tyrion was nothing like Jon. He was not a Lannister, but a Stark, not deformed, but whole and handsome, and the thought of bedding her estranged half-brother-turned-cousin was a much more appealing idea than allowing a Lannister to do it. 

"My first marriage was to Ser Hugo, a son of House Arryns through their cadet branch in Gulltown. He was a solemn man, rich in coin but poor in prestige, as members of House Arryn of Gulltown are tend to be viewed. Ser Hugo was fair enough to look at with his square jaw and pretty blue eyes, but nothing special in the end. He was older than I by thirty years, old enough to be my father, childless and suffering a lame leg, yet I did my duty and agreed to the marriage. When it came to the bedding, we consummated it dutifully, but the oaf enjoyed himself too much and started clutching at his heart just as he was about to climax." 

Sansa swallowed down harshly, a shiver running down her spine. This was not the kind of story she expected to hear, for Myranda always had a funny little tale ready at the tip of her tongue, not macabre confessions. 

"Do you know what I did after?" A distant glint came over Myranda's eyes as she relived her memories. "I grabbed a quill and started drawing funny scribbles across his face. At the time, I didn't know he kicked the bucket, too drunk on sweet wine to notice. Only the next day I realized he died. I still remember his slacked jaw and glazed eyes." 

"I'm sorry, Randa. I never knew." Sansa said. She meant her apology in more than one way. 

"Oh, don't be sorry, I had little love for the man." Myranda waved her off, but Sansa could see the memory still followed her. "My point is, darling, that no matter how complex a situation turns out to be, you must always make the best of it." 

It was not Myranda's voice Sansa heard, but Mother's. _ Family, duty, honour. _The wisdom and gravity behind those words felt so motherly. If she just closed her eyes and pretended, she could hear Catelyn Stark's warm voice flush over Sansa while her mother's soft hands caressed her scalp. 

"Well, the ceremony is about to begin. I best leave you to your own devices, for now." 

Myranda was about to make for the door, but Sansa was not done yet asking questions. "Wait, Randa! Before you leave, I wish to ask you something." 

"About what, love?" 

Suddenly, her cheeks started to burn bright. "Since I'm still a maiden...I-I have no experience when it comes to men." 

That was both true and false. Sansa had a little bit of knowledge. They were subtle, disturbing experiences when she was first a disgraced princess and then a bastard girl. She was reminded of Petyr's lessons then and how he meant to teach her how to seduce men with her womanly charm. 

She knew of what they meant, but she had to accept the lessons for what they were. Denying Petyr was dangerous. She saw what happened to people who denied him. Thinking back, Sansa had to suppress her utter disgust for the way Petyr was trying to groom her into...whatever it was he meant to make her. 

Ser Loras had stirred a fire inside her belly the first time she saw him, the beautiful brother of Margaery Tyrell, and since then, her vivid imaginations had men with luscious brown hair and brown-gold eyes starring in them. Those men then grew twisted, towering over her with scarred faces, growling at her like an angry hound. 

Her lips had only ever touched three men in her life. Or was it two? Sansa knew of lips belonging to a sickly boy, for they were wet and thin and quaking. Her sleeve always wiped off the taste lingering on her lips after. Petyr's kisses were firmer, more insistent, and she had felt more scared than repulsed by them. The third man, she knew not for certain. Was it Sandor? She could not remember it well enough. All she knew was that he had been cruel in taking the kiss. Cruel and demanding. He took a kiss and a song from her. 

Sansa scooted over to sit on the covers of her featherbed, her fingers. "I wish to know what to expect of...the bedding ceremony. My lady mother told me once that it hurts the first time." 

"Your lady mother was not wrong." Myranda said, sitting next to her, fingers dancing over Sansa's thigh. "It does hurt when a woman lays with a man for the first time, but afterwards, the pain gives way to many pleasures." 

"Truly?" Sansa found herself asking, her hands trembling. Discovering this sounded so exhilarating and frightening at the same. To couple and give up her virtue, what would that mean? How would it feel like? 

Myranda grinned. "Sex is nothing to be ashamed of. It's natural for us to perform the act. We can see it as duty, or we can simply embrace it and find satisfaction in the act. I prefer the latter." Myranda tittered at the blush further spreading across Sansa's cheeks, taking delight in teasing Sansa for acting like a little prude. 

Something confused her, however. "But how could you know? You've not remarried after Ser Hugo." 

Her friend gazed at her through her lashes sultrily. She lowered her voice in a whisper. "That doesn't mean I've stayed maidenly." 

The confession startled Sansa. Scandalized, Sansa lowered her voice equally. "You've taken lovers? B-but...you're betrothed!" 

Myranda was neither impressed nor chastised. "Do you believe Harry has remained faithful? Why do you think he insists on serving out his three years as one of Lord Robert's Winged Knights? By now, he has probably taken a few pretty maids to bed or even a bawdy lady." 

"Does that not bother you?" She could hardly imagine her own reaction if her husband had been unfaithful. Sansa was aware that some lady wives saw passed such slights to their honour for the sake of family. Cersei never forgave King Robert for his indiscretions and Mother looked with disdain at the result of Father's supposed infidelity. The damage such disloyalty could cause...she only had to look at the royal family for examples. 

Myranda shrugged her shoulder. "I don't care much about it, honestly. Harry and I were matched based on mutual gain, like most marriages, and I doubt love will blossom between us. Besides, it's not as if I'm suffering from a cold bed or anything." 

Sansa eyed her friend curiously, not knowing what she meant by that until Myranda's eyes flitted towards the entrance, a coy smile on her lips as she gazed at Jasper and Isembard, both sers sporting boyish grins, their eyes flashing with desire. 

It made sense then. 

Gods, her cheeks burnt on Myranda's behalf at how utterly wanton that sounded, but a part of Sansa did not find it in her to truly think of it as a slight and sin. If Myranda wished to seek comfort in the arms of another, then it was her right to decide that. 

"Beggin' yer pardon, miladies," A maidservant said suddenly. "but it's time for the wedding. Lord Stark is waiting in the godswood for the ceremony." 

Myranda clapped her hands giddily. "Splendid! Let's go, love. We cannot keep the King waiting for much longer." 

Myranda threw her maiden cloak over Sansa's shoulders before she linked arms with hers, practically towing her along in her enthusiasm. She made all kinds of bawdy jokes on the way, taking especial care to wonder out loud whether Jon had a nimble tongue or not. Sansa kept on blushing and blushing the more Myranda tittered about vulgarities until she finally could not take it anymore and pinched her friend's arm in exasperation in order to silence her. 

Soon, they made it to the godswood. Sansa and Jon both agreed to say a cross of vows before the old gods. Her marriage in the light of the Seven had not been blessed, she knew, but perhaps appeasing her father's gods would bring her much better fortunes. Jon kept to the old gods much more firmly than the gods of the south, and Sansa wished to please him by doing this, even if she found more comfort in the presence of a sept. 

"Now, I know there are some...complications between you and Jon, with this whole 'sibling-turned-cousin' business," Myranda whispered in her ear. "but let me give you one final piece of advice, darling. If it feels right, then it cannot be wrong in the eyes of the gods. Love it, don't hate it. You can make this as complicated or as easy as you wish." 

With that, her friend pressed her lips in a kiss against Sansa's cheek and released her hold, fluttering to stand between her father and her betrothed. Sansa mouthed a quiet 'thank you' to her friend, to which Myranda just winked before straightening into a more proper stand. 

The godswood was decorated beautifully with pale crystal lamps beside the dirt path and scarlet wreaths hanging from the weirwood branches. Oil lamps also helped illuminate the place, and all of it combined gave the godswood an ethereal beauty, like it was a plane of another world. 

The most notable lords and ladies of the Vale as well as Jon's entourage were in attendance, looking at her with various expressions. Sweetrobin was struggling to keep himself from shouting, not the least bit pleased about this all, squeezed between Lady Anya and Lord Yohn. He had thrown the biggest tantrum Sansa had seen when heard of her marriage to Jon, so big he suffered a stroke that left him out cold for three days. 

Harry was stone-faced as he gazed forward, and that sealed her opinion on the man forever. He had ambitions of his own, and surely, Harry must have seen them crumble before his eyes just now, so regarding her with favour he no longer felt necessary. 

Turning to her left, she saw how Alysane Mormont bowed slightly while Wylis Manderly gave a curt nod as she passed. Roger Ryswell smirked at her, not unkindly, just with slight interest, and the new Lord of the Hornwood, Larence, offered a sympathetic smile. Sansa still had a lot on her mind regarding the northern lords, but that was for later, when she came back to Winterfell, safe and secure inside the walls of her home. 

Grudges would not do her any good right now. While far from forgiving, Sansa did not intend to hold slights forever or to dress them down mercilessly, for it was not in her nature to do so. Their plight was understandable if ruthless, and it would be addressed accordingly. 

Satin and Mya were standing shoulder to shoulder, the only two people with the most genuine smiles of support. Their friendship had bloomed into something quite interesting. Sansa wondered if they wished to part from another or not after all of this. 

Brienne and Podrick were here as well, her sworn shield and her squire not seen for several days now. Surely, she had been in deep contemplation regarding Ser Jaime's assignment. Sansa knew that Brienne had conflicted loyalties about her and struggled in coming to a solid resolution. It was why she had given her some days to think, but looking at her now, Sansa suspected her decision was already made. They had yet to talk about it. 

And then, at the far end of her path stood Jon with a septon, his broad shoulders facing the heart tree. 

Lord Royce had arranged for a septon to officiate over the ceremony, thinking it proper to do so as her closest next of kin, thin and questionable that claim might be. While it was true that House Royce and her family had married often enough, Sansa was not aware how true Lord Yohn's claim was to being her kin. The ceremony was not usual. A septon marrying a pair before the eyes of the old gods was unheard of, but Sansa somewhat liked the conjunction between the old and new gods. 

Jon turned around with care, meeting her eyes cautiously, two cloaks of grey and white over his arms, and something incredible happened to her. Sansa was not ready for how her heart dropped like it did. It was sudden and fast and it did all kind of things to her. She could not deny how it rattled her so. 

Jon looked inspiring before, fierce and solid, but now, something else made her heart thrum faster inside her chest at the sight of him. She did not know if it was the silver and white doublet he wore, or the belt with a wolf's head as a buckle, but Jon looked like a true northern king right now. He looked like a trueborn son of House Stark. 

Normally, his dark brown tresses were bound back, but now they flowed freely, an unusual gloss shining through his locks, still wet from his bath most likely. The beard across his face had been trimmed to a shadow, further bringing out his long face. She liked his unbound hair and his slightly bearded face. It made him look handsome. 

"Who comes before the gods?" Came the hallowed question once Sansa was close enough. 

"Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark, Princess of Winterfell." Since none of her elders were here, Sansa decided to give herself away. An odd sort of pride mixed with sorrow bubbled inside her. _I wish you were here to see me, Father. See how your daughter proudly gives herself away as a Stark of Winterfell to another Stark of Winterfell. I wish you were here too, Mother, to watch how I let loose the girl and allow the woman to be born. _

"Who takes her to wife?" 

Jon demurred and lowered his face, choosing his words, a cloud of hesitation appearing in his eyes. Sansa encouraged him with a light smile, and it spurred him on. "I, Jon Stark, her legitimized cousin, son of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne and King in the North. I claim her as my lawful wife." 

"Who gives her away?" 

"I give away myself. Willingly and without reservations." Sansa continued, holding Jon's eyes as she did so. He gave her a delicate and humble smile, fragile as ivory, and she wondered who was trying harder to remain unfazed by this arrangement, she or him. 

"Do you, Princess Sansa of House Stark, take this man as your lawfully wedded husband? Do you swear to keep true to his person, to honour and love him and to stand by his side from this day until your last day?" 

"I do, the gods be my witnesses." 

"Do you, King Jon of House Stark, take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife? Do you swear to keep true to her person, to honour and protect her and to stand by her side from this day until your last day?" 

"I do, the gods be my witnesses." 

The septon gestured for the cloaks. Jon went first and unclasped his snow-white fur cloak, letting it drop to the dirt as Sansa took the grey one from his arms. The symbolism was not lost on her. By marrying him, Sansa would consolidate Jon's legitimacy as a Stark, and her cloaking him first was a clear sign of that. 

Sansa hade to make some effort to throw the heavy fur cloak over his broad shoulders, but she managed in the end, clasping it at the base of his throat. Her hand lingered on the crest of her family embellished within the clasp. 

Then, it was her turn. Careful fingers unfastened her maiden cloak, the pristine fur falling to the ground before Jon unwrapped her marital cloak and replaced its weight with this one, allowing it to settle securely over her naked shoulders. 

The septon gestured for her and Jon's hand to intertwine. The rough texture of his skin caused tingles to burst inside her belly. She was more excited than she thought she would be. 

A red ribbon was tied over their hands. "With this joining of hands, we represent the sacred union between Sansa and Jon Stark. In the eyes of the gods, old and new, they are not princess and king, not lord and lady, nothing worldly, but only man and woman entering in holy matrimony, bare and honest before all the gods. One flesh, one soul, now and always." 

With that, Sansa fully turned herself to Jon, the space between them closing in inch by inch. Her eyes were gazing at him expectantly. 

"With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband." 

"With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife." 

Sansa closed her eyes as their lips met for the barest of seconds, the wind chiming and the leaves rustling, _the gods are giving their blessing. _

It was a soft grazing of skin, featherlight and chaste, but still, it sent jolts down Sansa's spine, shivers which she felt go all the way down to her toes, curling them, for it was kind and harmless and loyal and all manners of good and promising that made her eyes burn just a little bit in relief. _ If it feels right, it cannot be wrong in the eyes of the gods. _

"I solemnly pronounce you man and wife." The septon announced as the crowd participated in a gentle round of applause, but Sansa heard them not, her eyes and ears only for the man currently holding her in his strong and warm arms. 

As their lips parted, Jon threw his sight at the ground, retreating back into himself, but Sansa had an overwhelming urge to gaze into those grey stones he called eyes and see how he struggled with the same emotions as she was, so she caressed her new husband's cheek and made him look her in the eye. 

Glancing up through his lashes, Jon gazed at her, looking through the windows of her soul, just as did she with him. Sansa saw the eyes of a brave man, a gentle man, a strong man ready to do what was right, someone who was worthy of her trust, the one thing she held close to her heart and thought never worthy of anyone. Jon was as ready as she was to do right by the other. 

Smiling softly to herself, it was then that Sansa knew they would not come to regret this marriage. 

For this felt right, and if it felt right, how could it ever be wrong? 

* * *

The wedding feast was in full swing as the last guests had taken their seats. Music, food and wine flowed as freely as the warm air rising from the hearths, the merriment around tangible. The great hall was packed with nobles dancing away the night, merry with too much wine in their blood, singing along with most bawdy songs the minstrels came up with. Sansa laughed and smiled and clapped along with every song that was sung, even joining in the bleating herself when she felt like it. 

Admittedly, she had taken a cup too many, but if someone asked her, Sansa cared little whether it was appropriate that she was almost as drunk as a lord. It was her wedding night, she had every right to throw caution into the wind and enjoy the warmth of all the booze in her veins. Myranda certainly liked to refill her cup again and again. 

Gods, it had been so long since she felt so carefree. When was the last time? In Winterfell, when she heard of her betrothal to Joffrey? When she rested her eyes on Lady for the first time? By the Mother, she could not remember. 

At her side, Jon also sported a healthy blush across his cheeks, for once not frowning as if someone had insulted him. He had a relatively loose expression, sometimes smiling lightly at everything around him like a child in awe. He was definitely on the verge of seeing people double, but not quite. 

"I never liked the taste of wine..." Jon suddenly blurted out as he kept twirling around his cup, looking at it with slight disdain. "It's sweet and tangy and it makes me feel like a woman. Men don't drink wine." 

"Then what do they drink, Your Grace?" Satin laughed, sipping from his own cup in teasing. 

Throwing the contents of his goblet to the ground, to the shock of everyone, Jon then flung the gilded object against the wall, the harsh sound it made muffled by the music. 

"Jon! What's gotten into you?" Sansa said, trying to sound berating, but the incredulous smile pulling at her lips undid any form of seriousness. She had not seen this side of him, not once, so unapologetically grumpy. It was amusing. 

"Tormund Giantsbane, a wildling chieftain I allowed to cross the Wall, kept bragging about this drink he called fermented goat's milk. It's strong enough to knock out a mammoth, he said. I tried it, and sure enough, I was flat on my face for a solid hour just after one gulp. Gods, I would put up with that brat Robert Arryn for an entire moon if it meant I got to taste that drink again now." 

Robert's sworn shields had taken to hassle her new husband with their presence, and they laughed heartily alongside Mya at the story. Sansa tried muffling her titters too, amused. Jon did not even seem to notice how his annoyance came to humour the people around him. 

"But was it not your task to keep wildlings beyond the Wall, Your Grace? You served as Lord Commander before you were crowned king, no?" Jasper inquired after he stopped laughing. 

Jon grumbled beneath his breath. "Beyond the Wall is not somewhere you wish to be right now. Dark things dwell there, dark and hideous things." 

A chorus of coos echoed, many of the Winged Knights intrigued. "Tell us about these things, Your Grace. We would like to hear what kinds of grumpkins and snarks you've found beyond the Wall." 

Everyone snickered at Nestor's irony, but Jon remained quiet, his usual frown back. For a moment, the young man feared he had insulted the King in the North and spluttered for an apology, but Jon shook his head. 

"You will come to see them yourself soon enough." 

It was a sinister and chilling promise. Her addled mind made it out sharply, but before its eerie meaning could settle, Harry decided to speak up. 

"Does it not make you an oathbreaker? Leaving the Night's Watch and all? I thought brothers of the Watch would take no wives, hold no lands and bear no titles?" 

"Dammit, Harry, you too? Has Roland's stupidity rubbed off on you?" Ronnel nudged him with an elbow harshly. 

Harry sneered as he shoved his fellow brother back. "It's a proper question, Sunderland. Stop teetering like a coward. King Jon won't cut my hand off for a mere question." Those dimples she once found so attractive turned to Jon smugly. "Or will you?" 

"No, I won't." 

If Sansa blinked, she could see how Harry and Jon took the shapes of a golden falcon and a dark wolf, both creatures of strength and trying to cow the other into submission. 

Before it could amount to anything, the crowd let out their cheering. 

"Time for the bedding ceremony!" 

Her blood froze, fingers stiffening and the muscles in her legs tightening. 

"There will be no bedding ceremony." Jon's voice cut like a knife, killing the enthusiasm of all that were present. They heckled and let their disappointment be heard, further stoking Jon's ire. 

"Nonsense. It's tradition, Jon, both in the North and through the kingdoms of the south. We cannot be insulting by denying them this." Sansa was not looking forward to this at all, but she was a creature of duty and smiled at the gathered people. Her mother had gone through this when she was a wedded woman. She would also see through it. 

The ladies giggled as they clawed at Jon like mountain lionesses, while the lords pawed at her flesh in equal hunger. It set her teeth on edge, their constant groping, but the wine in her blood had dulled Sansa's senses. She could stomach this. She could brave this. 

Before she knew it, Sansa had endured the grasping hands and ribald jokes, standing in only her linen shift, white stockings and smallclothes. Jon came barrelling in a few seconds later, his trousers, doublet and jerkin gone, wearing only a white nightshirt to conceal himself. She saw his legs poke out beneath his long shirt, slightly dusted with hair and muscled. Would they feel warm against her feet? 

The sound of giggling ladies made Jon enter the chamber further in embarrassed haste. The only source of light inside were the half-burnt candles and the rays of the moon shining through the window. There they stood awkwardly, freshly wed husband and wife. 

This required more wine. 

As she reached the table to pour herself another cup of Dornish red, the sound of a creaking bed tickled her ears. Sansa watched as Jon sat on the edge of the bed, looking as much out of place as a fish on dry land. 

She drank and drank and drank from her chalice, some of it even spilling over the sides and wetting her chin. The wine helped to bolster her confidence. Sansa was not sure if she could do this without some encouragement. 

Then, she picked up the sound of rustling sheets and Sansa turned sharply to see how Jon crawled into bed and readied himself for slumber. 

"What are you doing?" She uttered, dropping the chalice on the table with a cling. 

Jon stopped his movements and looked at her. "Retiring for the night?" 

"What about the bedding?" 

The question caught him off guard. "You..." His tongue came out to wet those lips of his. Those full lips that were pressed against hers not too long ago. Those lips which she kept thinking about since their wedding. "You wish to consummate our marriage?" 

It should have not offended her, for it was an innocuous query, truth be told, she felt no slight to her person as Jon put the question, but Sansa could feel herself frown nonetheless. 

She took her seat next to him, her thigh pressing against his. "Jon, do you know why the need to consummate this marriage exists? I don't have to tell why marriages are arranged, right?" He seemed annoyed by her lecturing tone. A thought entered her mind then. "Or perhaps you _do _know, yet you're simply repulsed by the idea of bedding me." 

"I'm not repulsed." Jon said, not hesitating. "Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms would agree with me if I said that you're one of the most beautiful women on this land." 

Sansa smiled, blushing at his praise. It assured her to know that. Sansa had heard it often enough that she was a beauty, but it stopped having meaning after it fell off the tongues of serpents. Jon called her beautiful now, and nothing sounded so sweet as that. 

Emboldened by the wine and her own growing frustrations, Sansa took the lead and mounted Jon, landing herself on top of his lap, her arms snaked across his neck. His arms in turn came to circle across her waist, enclosing them in an embrace. 

"You don't repulse me, either." She admitted in a whisper, their mouths close enough that if Sansa bent down just a little bit, she could have his lips caressing hers. The wine in her blood and her raging emotions incentivised her to say the following. "To be fair, I quite desire you. Do you desire me?" 

Her forehead rested against his, and because they were so achingly close, Sansa could see the steel-grey alongside flecks of blue-purple shining in his eyes. She could feel the hard expanse of Jon's chest pressing against her rising breasts, his strong arms holding her tight by the waist, laboured breathes leaving her lips as heat started pooling in her core. 

Jon's eyes took a darker glint. "Yes..." 

The confession thrilled her. "Someone once told me that if something feels right, it cannot be wrong in the eyes of the gods." She leaned forward and softly kissed his nose. "Does this feel wrong?" 

Jon shook his head. "No." 

Sansa kissed his eyelids. "And this?" 

"No." 

Sansa kissed his cheeks. "What about this?" 

"No." 

Finally, her blue eyes took in the fullness of Jon's lips, those pretty lips of his. She kissed them lightly and waited for his reaction. He remained placid in her arms. She kissed him again, this time a little more fiercely. He reacted with a press of his own, still calm. 

Whether it was because she was drunk on wine or the blissful feel of his lips, Sansa did not know, but all the same, the boldness that came from it rewarded her with reciprocating kisses. They kissed and kept kissing, peppering each other's face with soft little pecks until Sansa started biting her lip to prevent herself from moaning wickedly. Like an excited explorer seeing land, she had the desire to discover more. 

Sansa wanted things to go further, she wanted to fall deeper into this abyss and added an exploratory lick across the seams of Jon's mouth. His throaty groan shot straight towards her core. The cavern of his mouth opened after another lick, welcoming her tongue. Sansa moaned at the hot and wet feel of her husband's tongue caressing her own. 

Their hands had not remained idle, either. Sansa was tugging on Jon's brown locks, burying her fingers in his mane of Stark hair while he decided to stroke the small of her back and the curves of her sides, his hand gliding through her thin shift, sometimes settling it on her hip and digging his fingers inside her flesh. It felt amazing. 

Lost in their exploration, Sansa paid no mind on how much she was leaning into Jon until he fell backwards on the bed, dragging her along with a squeal. 

"Sorry." Sansa laughed, breathless, resting her chin on Jon's chest before she crawled up and claimed his mouth again, continuing where they left off. 

How long had they been kissing? It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. Sansa would not know the difference anyway. Her mind had only room for Jon, his musky scent and hard body and searing kisses. 

The haze of their emotion had lifted gradually as Sansa and Jon held each other, their breaths mingling. She gazed at him, and he gazed at her. 

"Did you hate it? Did you feel immoral? Was it wrong of us that we enjoyed this?" Sansa asked in rapid succession, biting her lip as she anxiously waited for Jon's answer. 

"Gods no. It felt good." The groan rumbled so deeply and strongly inside his chest, Sansa could feel it through her own breasts, her nipples hardening a little. A hand flew up to bury itself in her hair, bringing her closer for another kiss. 

Sansa could have wept at how fulfilled she felt. Gods, this felt so good. How could this ever be wrong? This desire, this passion? 

Her hands flitted to the laces of his nightshirt, but Jon caught them before she could start ridding him of his clothes. "I'd prefer it if we kept our shifts on. Would that please you?" 

A touch of disappointment painted her mind, but she did not allow for it to be shown. Yes, a sinful part of her really wished to know how Jon would look like naked in the moonlight. Sansa's hands had roamed over the hard planes and slants of his body more than a few times, for she liked to touch and commit his figure to memory, and to feel his skin beneath her fingers was something she was very curious about. But, if it was what he wanted, then Sansa would respect his wish. Besides, she was also not too eager to show some parts of her own body to Jon. She was not ready yet to show him the scars of her past 

Abruptly, Jon flipped them over, towering above her. The pads of his fingers, smooth this time surprisingly, went underneath her shift, touching the bare skin of her waist, gliding down, down, down until he reached the tilt of her thighs meeting her arse. She gasped at the contact, chasing the feel of his hand with subtle squirms. 

"What are you waiting for!? Bed the wench, already!" 

Like a needle, the callous voice of a man pierced their little bubble. Outraged, Sansa was about to shout out at the offender, but Jon had gotten to that first by grabbing the nearest solid object and flinging it to the door. The voices ceased their incessant tittering in an instant. 

"Damn pigs..." Jon snarled, and Sansa let out a breathy laugh. 

Fearing their momentum would come to a grinding halt, Sansa took advantage of Jon's lapse of concentration and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her and showering his neck with wet kisses, taking the lead away from him. 

There was barely any space between them, their bodies wringing against each other like hot pieces of sandstones. Faintly, Sansa registered something warm and hard pressing against her thigh before she realized it was Jon's erection. Her hips involuntarily canted and rolled, creating friction, and Jon let out a series of low growls at the feel of her thigh rubbing against his member. 

Taking it a step further, she reached out and palmed his length, the growls turning into needy grunts as she stroked and squeezed gently. Wetness had started to pour out of her inner folds as they continued their grinding. Her flower had grown hot and needy with something Sansa did not know the name of. 

"Let me see how wet you are." Jon breathed into her neck, a hand already trailing down underneath her shift, stroking up across her thigh before landing on the silky expanse of her smallclothes. Sansa's body was burning, her throat clogged and thick when she swallowed at the feel of Jon's finger tugging them aside and probing at her sensitive flesh with a finger, then two. 

Gently, he caressed the rims of her most sacred place, rubbing up and down, testing and gathering her slickness before repeating the motion. Sansa had not noticed until now how much her entrance had started weeping in anticipation, but now she could hear how her wetness sloshed indecently. The sounds made her blush like the maiden she still was. She was truly ready for her marriage to be consummated, she thought with a thrill. 

"Hmmm, you're quite wet, Sansa." The echo of Jon's brogue grazed her earlobe, his tongue licking the tender flesh behind it as he continued his ministrations. "Are you sure you're ready?" 

"Yes..." She sighed into Jon's neck. "Please, release me of this torment. I want...I want..." 

"What do you want, Sansa?" He urged her on, fingers still stroking her folds, grazing her nub even. "Tell me, what is it you want?" 

She grasped Jon's face with both hands, lips quivering, mouth dry and eyes burning with desire as she looked straight into his soul. "You." 

Her answer was a deep growl before he distanced himself, taking with him his delicious body heat. Sansa had no time to be disappointed as a pair of strong arms coiled around her thighs and pulled her closer before throwing her legs around Jon's waist. He had bunched up his shirt to reveal his lower body, the cords of his chiselled stomach and toned legs taut, and most important of all, his girth standing at attention. Sansa gasped. 

Jon's shaft was erect, poking beneath a small thatch of neatly groomed hair, long as a blade, his glans gleaming with something wet. It trickled out of his slit a little, his own slickness. She wondered if it was as sticky and hot as hers. 

Jon's member looked intimidating and tough, and for a moment, Sansa could feel the small squeeze of fear take hold of her heart in a vice-like grip. Was it possible for that to fit inside her? She smothered the fear and resolved. It was way too late to turn back now. Not that she wanted to. 

Jon loomed above her again, concern plain in his eyes. "I'm sure you know that this will hurt for a little bit." 

"I know. Don't worry, I've prepared myself." She said back, bending forward to plant a little kiss to his lips as she rolled up her shift, baring herself for him. Like Jon, she did some grooming herself, trimming the hairs above her sex, taking special care not to cut her pearl with the razor. Nobody had told her to do so, but Sansa thought it proper and, well, clean to remove the wiry hairs a little. Now, only a small auburn-coloured triangle remained on her mound. 

Jon looked enraptured as Sansa finished rolling up her shift until she felt the coldness of the chamber prickle her folds, gooseflesh appearing across her skin. 

"You're truly beautiful. Every man would be envious of me to call a woman like you my wife." The whispery admission made her blood sing. 

She opened her arms for Jon, kissing him as he leaned down. "You're beautiful as well." 

And Sansa meant what she said as she swiped her tongue over Jon's lips, even nibbling and sinking her teeth carefully into their fullness, her chest heaving with raw need. Jon had truly grown into a beautiful man. A strong man with blood in his veins hot enough to ignite her with lust too. 

Their movements never ceased in vigour. Everything she did, every caress, kiss and roll of her hips was spurred by instinct. Sansa had no experience whatsoever, yet whatever she did, whatever _they _did, all of it felt natural and oh so _good _and _right_. 

Sansa felt something hot poke at her slick opening, unconsciously spreading her legs just a little more to accommodate him, and then, he began to push into her, stretching her folds open. A moan tumbled over her lips as the pleasant stretching continued. Suddenly, a jab made her gasp through her nostrils in pain. Jon had breached her maidenhead, for she could feel how it tore. 

Jon must have sensed her discomfort, for he pressed his chest against her breasts and claimed her lips again, trying to distract her from the pains. Sansa's response was immediate, crossing her arms over Jon's shoulders, returning his kisses. 

"Tell me when I should move." Jon said to her patiently, hips held in place, his swollen lips now trailing a path across the line of her jaw. His ministrations worked, for the pain seemed to fade away soon enough, leaving behind a pleasurable feeling of opening up. Sansa liked how Jon filled her with his manhood, the length and thickness stretching her in the most satisfying way. It was foreign, but not unwelcome, not unwelcome at all, this heat inside her flower. 

With a roll of her hips, Sansa nodded against Jon's neck. "You can move now. It doesn't hurt anymore." 

Jon gave a few careful strokes, swaying against her pelvis as he sunk deeper inside her. Sansa keened and mewled salaciously, her nails scratching across Jon's back as he retracted his cock before sliding back in, letting his hot groans wash over her neck. 

Sweat was starting to pour out of her, wetting her brows, temples and back. Gradually, their coupling picked up intensity, the heat radiating off of their bodies like the embers of a hearth. Her hand clutched the linens beneath her, the other one still tangled in Jon's hair. The sound of their bodies coming together and their heavy breathing filled the air and bounced off the walls. 

His thrusts and rolls caused the bed to creak beneath her, fingers tightening their hold on both the linens and the locks of brown hair at the obscene noise. Gods, this felt unbearably good. Breathing in through her nose, Sansa relished in the scent of her husband's smell, loving his earthy musk, feeling herself tighten around his girth and making him groan in return. 

In order to have find better purchase, Sansa threw her legs over his thighs and crossed them, her calves rubbing across the coarse texture of his skin. The result was Jon sinking even deeper inside her, and she let out a series of low, throaty moans, trying to muffle them by pressing her lips against Jon's neck in open-mouthed kisses. 

"Yes, like that-_ Ah! _Gods, don't sto-_Oh! _Please, don't stop!" 

Jon grunted out his reply, putting more strength in his thrusts, sliding in and out of her hole faster and better, their mixed slickness easing his path. 

"I'm close-_Ugh! _Oh gods...Sansa, I'm not going to-_Oh! _last long..." 

Sansa was close herself, a knot forming inside her stomach. She bit into Jon's shoulder almost hard enough to draw blood the moment her peak hit her, clamping down on Jon's member almost violently. Her peak rendered her breathless as it hit her hard and well, mouth parted in a soundless scream as white light burst open before her eyelids, the heat flushing out of her like a wave of fire. 

Jon soon followed her into the abyss, hips stuttering before he delivered his final thrust and buried himself inside her to the hilt. She could feel his seed warming her inner walls, making her moan. He remained on top of her, the hardened cords of his chest pressing against her rising breasts pleasantly. His weight was not suffocating at all, for she liked it atop of her, fingers crawling up and down across his shoulders. 

Supporting himself on his elbows, Jon gazed at her as he tried to catch his breath, Sansa doing the same. His face had taken a slightly reddened colour, and Sansa was certain hers was just as flushed as his with desire. 

"That was..." His harsh breathing prevented Jon from finishing, but Sansa could probably guess what was on his mind. 

"...amazing? Yes, it was amazing for me too." 

And yet, as utterly amazing and pleasing it was, Sansa wanted more. There was a hunger inside her that had yet to be sated. It shamed her a little, this wantonness for more. 

"You're not done yet, are you? You want more..." Gods, had Jon noticed? Sansa was mortified! What would he think of her now? A deprived whine left Sansa's lips as she looked away, her cheeks hot with shame. _ He must think of me as some promiscuous girl... _

Were ladies supposed to like coupling this much? Surely, they were not? Myranda did say that it was nothing to be so embarrassed about... 

Suddenly, Jon flipped them over again, and this time it was Sansa who was on top, straddling her husband and bracing her hands on his chest. The hard planes of his body caused a heat to fill her up again. 

Her folds were dripping with Jon's seed, her own release and the remnants of her maidenhead, providing enough slick for her husband's manhood to slide across them easily, grazing her pearl and folds in such an amazing way. 

"Do you remember how to ride a horse?" Jon said as he steadied her by the hips, holding them with his strong hands. One felt rough, the other felt smooth, and the contrast drove her mad with want. 

While Sansa nodded, it had been quite some time since she had been atop a horse, but she feared that if she shook her head, then they would have to leave this exciting little position. 

"Ride me, Sansa. Chase your release until you're satisfied." 

Blushing, Sansa did as she was told and lifted her hips, aligning herself above Jon's solid member and slowly impaling herself upon him. By the gods, the way he stretched her open again was almost enough to make her peak again. When she had fully sheathed him inside her, Sansa gave her hips a careful roll, adjusting to his size, then again, and again. 

Jon's concentrating face and hoarse groans encouraged her to set a faster pace, riding him in earnest. She was still sensitive from earlier, so it did not take long before Sansa started moaning as the familiar rise of her climax was creeping up the horizon. 

In order to keep her hands occupied, Sansa cupped her breasts through her shift and pinched her hardened nipples with a thumb and index. Sparks of pleasure soared through her body, but the feel of her hands were too soft to elicit a proper shock, so she grabbed Jon's hands and placed them on her teats instead. 

He immediately set to work and kneaded them, the set of his jaws locked tight in concentration as Sansa kept riding him within an inch of his life. Feeling herself tightening up, Sansa was about to peak, but Jon had other ideas, bending forward and claiming her in his arms. He sat up, face buried in her neck, letting the grunts inside his chest reverberate against her breasts as Sansa bounced up and down his cock. Her fingers pulled his locks in desperation, the eventual fall coming nearer. Finally, she peaked with a shattering scream, her walls coiling down on Jon's length tightly, and as a reward, Sansa felt how Jon spurted his seed deep inside her again. 

They collapsed in a heap of boneless limps, breathing coming out in large heaves, Sansa's head resting against Jon's chest. 

So tired of their coupling, the urge to fight off sleep was an uphill battle, one Sansa lost without putting up much of a fight. 

Her eyes closed and her lips pulled into a satisfied smile as she snuggled up to her new husband, letting Jon's smell lull her to sleep. 

And for the first time in a while, it proved to be a restful sleep. 


	15. Chapter 15

** _JON_ **

Morning came dark and low on warmth, Jon mused as he kept stroking the curves of Sansa's sleeping face with his knuckles, the sunrays falling through the windows into their chamber dimly. Her pliant body was prone next to him, Jon laying on his side as he watched her, feeling her sleep-warm and soft through the fabric of her creased nightshift, an expression free of woes and troubles upon her face. Her auburn hair was spread across her pillow, fiery locks made like tendrils of fire. The free folk would love her and call her lucky, like they called Ygritte lucky. 

_ Kissed by fire. _

A deep sigh left his body. Jon started crawling out of their bed to come and stand near the window in only his nightshirt, leaning against the wall as he looked outside. The weather was crisp and dull, the clouds mottled with grey and black colours. 

Not a single ray of sunlight had managed to pierce through the thick clouds properly. Gales were beating against the windows, their strong fingers tugging at trees and grinding against stone, while flecks of snow were falling down from the sky. These were the circumstances under which he would travel back to the North. He and his wife. 

_ I am a married man now. _

It made him snort, the bizarre fact that he was married now, remembering which path he had tread before. The day he swore his vows in front of the heart tree and pledged himself a brother of the Night's Watch would be with him forever. 

Jon thought it a sacred moment in his life when the last words were uttered, finally finding some meaning and clarity. His life would lead somewhere beyond the stain of his bastardy, at least. Jon thought he knew who he was then, where he belonged, what his purpose was. 

And now look at him, married before the eyes of all the gods. 

To the woman he once called sister. 

By the gods, he knew he was a bit unreasonable about it all. By blood, they were cousins, and by heart, perhaps even less. They were estranged kin. 

Marriage between cousins was nothing to frown upon and before the eyes of the gods, their marriage was no insult. Yes, Sansa had been raised alongside him as a sister, but the love they shared had always been dim and delicate and turbid. Jon considered her as much a sister as she must have seen him as a brother. If he thought of sisters, he thought of Arya. 

For so long, he desired to be reunited with his siblings, it almost became an obsession. First with Arya, who turned out to be Jeyne forced to masquerade as her, then with the news of Rickon being in Skagos, and now Sansa. He just wished to be reunited with a part of his past. The past which brought him comfort. Now that he was reunited with someone of his past, he knew not what to make of it, for Sansa and he, they just redefined what they meant to each other. 

Jon thought of his nocturnal activities yesterday and it made him chew on his bottom lip, heat flushing through his throat all the way up to colour his cheeks. The haze of ale was strong last night, but not strong enough to make him forget how he and Sansa consummated the marriage. The sounds she made, the ways she moved, the smells clinging to her body, the tightness of her embrace. It caused his heart to warm up. And to his shame, his loins as well. 

Jon was aware why she went through with consummating the marriage. It offered Sansa safety from the depredations of others, safety from ambitious men eager to marry her for her claim to Winterfell and the North. Sansa married him to protect herself, and it also greatly helped him that the last daughter of Eddard Stark had thrown her support behind his cause in the form of marriage. The political boons were numerous. 

Still, it saddened him that Sansa had not married for love. Jon was not sad for himself, for he cared little for his own happiness. He was saddened for Sansa. To be forced to choose such an arrangement. Jon could only imagine what kind of despair must have prompted her to decide something like this. 

A stirring behind him made Jon throw a cautious look over his shoulders. Sansa was squirming beneath the egg-blue covers, turning her back to him before settling with a quiet yawn. Barefooted, Jon made his way back to their bed and slid inside again, enveloped by the pleasant warmth of her body once more. 

He knew he was a broody bastard about it. Sansa chose him, simple as that. She had every opportunity to decline the marriage, but she went through with it anyway. That had to mean something. What exactly, he dared not say for sure. Was it a token of past affection? A warped desire to be bonded with the last Stark known to her? 

_ If it feels right, then it cannot be _ _ wrong _ _ ... _

Gods, why did this have to be so convoluted... 

A hand went to caress his wife's naked shoulder, feeling a well opening inside him that filled with something inexplicable. His ladylike and sweet-smelling and wife. It was still a bit hard to grasp. 

"Jon...?" Sansa rasped groggily, voice still sleep-laced. 

"I didn't mean to wake you." Jon apologized as he took back his hand. Sansa rolled to her other side with a low whine, and Jon had to do everything in his power not to let that little noise get the better of him. 

"You didn't. I was waking up already." She stared at him with big blue eyes, hair mussed and sprawled across her pillow like a crown of fire. By the gods, she was indeed beautiful. 

A shy smile bled across her face. "Your hands...one feels soft, and the other feels rough. How is that?" 

His eyes blinked at the question. Jon inspected his hands, coming to take note of his burnt one. "I scalded my hand while I was still with the Watch. The flesh turned smooth from the searing." 

"How did you burn your hand?" She slipped closer, taking his hand gently, turning it over for concerned her eyes. Her long fingers had laced with his, warm and seamless in his grasp. He squeezed a little before he answered. 

"I protected my Lord Commander from a wight. The torch scalded my hand when I did." 

"A wight? You mean...?" 

"Aye, a creature of the dead." 

Sansa's voice turned mute, her body shivering. Likely, she had a hard time believing him. Very few people were aware of the living dead. He had yet to inform the North properly, but without concrete proof, it would be hard to do so. 

"How, uhm, was your sleep?" Sansa instead asked. 

Jon took back his hand and laid down, looking up at the dark canopy. The nights were usually such torments to him, but in light of what transpired, it seemed his nightmares had decided to leave him be for the time being. Not that he had gotten much rest. After their coupling, Jon laid abed for hours, staring upwards much like now, pondering and pondering until his head started pounding. It would not do to say that to Sansa. 

"I slept well enough." Jon said, a little guilty about lying. "And you?" 

Sansa buried her face deeper in her pillow, bashful. Light fell onto her from outside, a ray of bright sunlight lightening up her face just for a moment. Her eyes were smiling. "Yes, I slept well..." 

They stayed like that for a while, neither of them saying a word. Just staring at each other with the curiosity of newborns. A hundred things were left unspoken. They had so much to talk about, but neither found the tongue to do so. 

"Sansa..." Her eyes had drooped down, looking at something else, but as he said her name, Sansa perked up and gazed at him with fixed attention. "Where do we go from here...?" 

Sansa sat up a little. "I don't understand." 

"I mean this." Jon blurted, gesturing to her and then himself. "Us. Our marriage. What do we do now? What does this all mean to us?" 

Sansa made an effort to sit up straighter, her back resting against the headboard. She was looking at her lap, those dainty hands of hers twined together as she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip in contemplation. Jon just looked at her, now too coming up to sit properly. 

"What does it mean for you, Jon? For me, it's not so hard, for it goes as far as the vows we've made. I will care and do right by you, as I've promised before the eyes of all the gods." She gave him a shy side-glance. "That is what I will strive towards. That is my duty and intention." 

"Did you not envision more in a marriage?" Jon whispered as Sansa turned fully towards him. 

"Like what? Love?" Jon gave a small nod. "In the past, yes, I dreamt of a love that could conquer the world, but now, I've come to see that a marriage has no need of that at all." 

That did not sound like the Sansa Jon knew. At all. It sounded wrong and tainted. "You cannot mean that, Sansa." 

"I do mean it." She answered back evenly. Jon startled at the feel of her hand coming to rest on his own, making him look up into Sansa's eyes. "I will not expect you to love me. It's not the reason why we married. We married for the good of the North and House Stark. We married for duty, for it is our duty to protect the North. This marriage protects our family and the North as well as it can." 

"Aye, that is true," Jon said, tightening his hold on her hand. "but was the consummation necessary? We could have-" 

"Could have what, Jon?" Sansa prodded, a little annoyed. "Pretended? For what purpose? I've grown tired of pretending. I've lived the life of a mummer for far too long, and I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to love again. It's not worth toiling for. I gave you my virtue, because I feel something stronger than love for you." 

It pained him to hear her so scornful, so resentful of the things that had happened to her. The harsh disappointments in life had turned her skin from pretty porcelain to bitter steel. 

But, she had said also she felt for him something stronger than love. "What is stronger than love to you, Sansa?" 

"Trust." Sansa whispered, running a hand over his bearded jaw. Those eyes he was slowly losing himself in shimmered. "I'm putting my faith in you, Jon, not only with my claim, but with my body as well. I know that you'll never do anything that will break me, and I'm content with that. Married to you means my children, _our _children, will bear the name and blood of the Starks and know what that means. Winterfell will pass down to a Stark. I've long lost the will to care for anything else. I just want to go home and be at peace. Would you allow me that?" 

His heart trembled with something primal. It thrilled Jon to hear the words 'our children' from Sansa. To have a wife to and call her his, and a brood of children he could teach how to swing a sword and ride a horse, see them grow strong and healthy. Was that not a dream he cherished all his life? A son named Robb...or a daughter named...how would he name his daughter? 

"I would allow you everything, Sansa." Jon said earnestly, determination filling him up. He shuffled closer and cupped her cheek, brushing the marble skin with a thumb. "You're right, we did not marry for love, and I will also not expect you to one day love me as a woman loves a man. But," The pads of his fingers came to follow the lines of Sansa's cheekbone, tracing a pattern. "whatever I can do, I will. You'll never have want for anything. I've broken a lot of vows, but this one, I will uphold at the cost of my own life." Suddenly, he lowered his eyes, a little embarrassed as the next words came out of his mouth. "Maybe, in time, we will come to love one another as more than just...the most convenient solution, I suppose." 

In truth, if Jon was completely, utterly, nakedly honest, the thought of loving Sansa as something more did not sound so impossible. Not at all. He could see himself, down a few years, love her as a man would love his wife, with everything that came along with it. 

They could share their burdens and seek solace in each other's arms as only married couples could offer, but saying such things to Sansa now would most likely daunt her, perhaps even frighten her. Sansa was not in need of a lover. She had a need for a protector. Jon could be that, he could be her shield, her shield against the darkness. And he would be content if that was all she ever wanted from him. 

Letting her eyes fall down, Sansa's lips quirked into a half-hearted smile. "I think..." 

She suddenly grew quiet, leaving her sentence unfinished. 

"What do you think?" Coming closer, Jon placed a finger beneath Sansa's chin, raising her head. 

If he did not know better, Jon might have thought that her eyes lingered somewhere, but Sansa was soon to lock her eyes with his again, that fragile smile of hers back. "It's nothing..." The covers were thrown aside as Sansa came to sit on the edge of the bed, her back towards him. "We should probably ready ourselves. If I'm right, we'll be riding out of the Gates today." 

It sounded like a dismissal, like she wanted him to leave. Standing up, Jon frowned as he made for the restroom, relieving himself in a chamber pot. Sansa said nothing that was untrue, they did plan to finally leave the Vale today and make for Winterfell, as King and Queen in the North and lawfully wed man and wife. Still, the chill in her words stung a little. He decided to ignore it, hard as that was. 

When he was done, Jon opened the doors of their chambers and ordered for handmaidens to bring in some hot water for Sansa's bath. Leaving her to her privacy, Jon went about his way to a different chamber and washed up himself, splashing cold water from a basin into his face in order to rid himself of any lingering sleep. The bathtub was filled with steaming water already when Jon finished disrobing, stepping inside the bronze object and scrubbing his body clean of sweat and other grimes. 

After his bath, Jon stood dressed in only white robes, Satin entering his chambers with a set of garbs. "Your Grace, I've brought some fresh clothes for you. The castle wishes to break its fast within the hour. Would that be according to your wishes?" 

Jon nodded absentmindedly. "Of course, Satin." 

"Is everything all right, my king? You seem a bit lost in your thoughts." Satin placed his clothes upon the bedlinens, draping his fur cloak over a chair. 

He gave him a dismissive hum, signalling for the door. Satin took that as his cue to leave the room, but not without making a face. 

In silence, Jon dressed leisurely, the feel of wool and cotton sliding over his skin the only thing that was registered. Jon pulled up his trousers, fastened his sword belt and tied the laces of his tunic before he wore his jerkin, everything done in meticulous order, a flat hand smoothing the pieces of clothing in place. Throwing his thick fur cloak over his shoulders, Jon left his chambers, greeted by Satin's sunny smile as they both started walking down the corridor. 

"Your sword, my liege." Satin said, extending Longclaw. 

"Thank you, Satin." 

They strode in silence, Satin one step behind him, and the pair were soon welcomed by a stirring smell. The great hall was abuzz with people breaking their fast. At the high table sat Lord Yohn and Lord Nestor Royce, heads bowed together in talk. Lady Myranda was being kept busy by her friend Mya Stone as she kept picking grapes from a bowel. 

An easy atmosphere had settled on everyone. The northerners were calmly preoccupied as well. Roger was feeding his betrothed, Lady Margret Lynderly, some slices of apples with his knife. A few betrothals and marriages had been concluded to further strengthen the ties with the Vale. Larence was another example, who set next to his Grafton wife rather stiffly, focused on his porridge like an acolyte studying for his chains at the Citadel. 

Sansa was nowhere in sight. 

"Go forth, Satin, I must seek out the Queen." Jon already headed towards the exit. 

"Queen Sansa is not at the great hall?" Satin called out, but Jon resumed his march. 

Exploring the halls, Jon could not shake off this bad feeling creeping alongside his spine. Sansa would not usually be so tardy as to arrive late for breakfast. Turning a corner, he heard the distinct lilts of two people arguing suddenly. 

"Sansa, please, explain to me why you agreed to marry that barbaric northerner?" One voice rang. 

"You dare speak so ill of my husband, my lord?" The other, Sansa's clearly, retorted indignantly. 

Jon had his back against the wall, making sure that they did not notice him as he eavesdropped on their conversation. Listening closely, Jon made out that it was a discussion between Lord Harrold Arryn and Sansa, for he recognized the man's timbre, the pride and preening of a southron lord believing to be something special clear in his tone. 

"I could have given you everything you wanted, Sansa. We could have had it all, you and I. Passion, love, a happy and fruitful marriage. My armies would have delivered you Winterfell and your rightful crown. You would have been a queen in your own right." 

"Am I not Queen in the North now, Lord Harrold? I don't see what you're trying to get at." 

"Yes, you're a queen, but at the cost of wedding a beast." Harrold spat. "I've heard the rumours around your 'honourable' lord husband. The fool laid and consorted with filthy wildlings! He even allowed them to cross the Wall, insulting the very purpose why he swore his vows!" 

"That is where you're wrong, Harry. Have you forgotten why the Night's Watch was created? Not to defend the realms of men from men itself. I'm sure Jon did what he thought was right at the time. My lord husband is a good and considerate man. He would never decide things without considering consequences." 

To hear her defend him so warmed his heart, filling it with fire. Sansa spoke with pride about him. Was he truly worthy of this woman? 

"Sansa, listen to me-" 

"Excuse me, Harry, but I will not. During my time here, I've come to enjoy your company more than I should have. Truly, I see now that it was highly inappropriate for an unwed lady to enjoy the company of a betrothed man so much. Now that I'm wed, it is even more improper for such acts to continue. I humbly ask you to keep true to Randa and leave me in peace. I'm a woman grown, wedded and bedded. Such th-" 

"He bedded you!?" 

"What else would happen at a wedding night?" 

Sansa let out a high-pitched lilt in panic. Something had happened. Having enough, Jon left his hiding spot, rage soon reddening his eyes at the sight of Harrold Arryn invading Sansa's personal space as he held her by the arms. 

"Jon!" 

The sound of Longclaw scraping out of his sheath rang loud, and had it not been for Sansa, a bloodied hand would be lying on the ground now. 

Sansa deftly backed away from Harrold and flocked to his side like a startled doe. Jon pulled her closer, baring his teeth at Lord Harrold, his hand settled on the small of her back. 

"What is this ruckus?" Jon forced himself to sound composed, but everything in his blood was raging like wildfire. How dare Harrold lay his hands on Sansa? 

"Nothing of import." Sansa quickly scrambled to say. 

"Are you sure?" Pulling her a little closer, Jon urged her with steely eyes. 

She only nodded, tugging at his arm so she could drag him along with her into the hall. Jon threw one last scowl Harrold's way, who seemed uncowed and answered him with one of his own. 

As they walked, arm in arm, Sansa whispered to him. "I want to leave the Gates as soon as possible. I want to go home, Jon. Take me to Winterfell." 

"We'll be on the road as soon as possible. You have to eat first." Jon said, but Sansa shook her head. 

"I can eat on the road. I just wish to leave this place." 

Nodding, Jon offered a placating pat on the hand curled over his arm. "You and I both. We have a lot to do in Winterfell.". 

"But we'll do it together. Right?" 

Yes, they would rebuild and lead the North together. He had no intention to keep Sansa in the dark about the affairs of the North. He could not wish to do so, for Sansa would surely desire to be involved in everything pertaining the kingdom and make that known. How could he bar her from managing her own home? 

"Satin, prepare the horses and inform the northern lords to pack up their belongings. We will leave before midday." Jon said as they passed his ever loyal steward. 

"Of course, Your Grace?" Satin stammered, taken by surprise at the precipitance, struggling to keep up with their long strides. "Would you not like to take it a bit easier, though? The kitchens have prepared a most splendid duck meat pie and I'm really eager to have a taste." 

Jon halted his advance, staring at Satin long and hard, incredulous "Surely, you're jesting..." 

Satin crossed his arms and huffed, more than serious about this, for his determination was apparent on his face. Jon had not seen him so solemn in a while. "Everything but, my liege." 

Others take him, he was actually serious about this? What was Jon to make of this? 

Sansa took to it good-naturedly and tittered behind her sleeve. "Go Satin, have some meat pies, and tell the cooks to make you some extras. We'll be having a long journey." 

"You have my sincerest gratitude, my queen." Satin bowed with a toothy smile, leaving in a graceful flutter. 

Jon felt Sansa tugging at his arms, asking for his attention. "Before we leave, I want to tell you something." 

"What about?" They resumed their walk back to the great hall. Valemen and Northmen alike greeted them as they passed, their deference curt and pointed. 

"While I'm eager to leave the Vale behind, I do wish for someone to accompany us on our journey back to Winterfell." Sitting in their chairs, Jon and Sansa started on their porridge. 

"Who did you have in mind?" 

"Mya Stone." 

Jon stopped spooning through his porridge. "King Robert's daughter?" 

She nodded demurely. "I wish for her to be my handmaiden. I have no ladies or friends in the North, and Mya would offer me great comfort. It would also please your steward very much. They look thick as thieves already. He'd be happy to have a friend up in the rugged North who wouldn't judge him for his...preferments. I can only imagine how most of the northerners would frown upon him, especially since he serves as your personal steward, a highly coveted position." 

It surprised Jon how accurate she was. "You know of Satin's tastes?" 

Sansa shook her head. "I am not certain. He's a beautiful man." A little jab of annoyance prickled him, and for the life of him, he did not know why, for Sansa was nothing but right, Satin was a handsome man. "Petyr told me what happens to beautiful people in unfortunate circumstances. I heard that he was forced to serve in a brothel before he ended up as a brother of the Watch. You've told me that the circumstances there aren't much to go by. He must have suffered a great deal during his life." 

"And yet, Satin is one of the kindest men I know." Jon said fondly. "He's a loyal and good friend, true till the very end. Not many people have the fortitude to go through such trying ordeals and come out a kinder soul. In that, I respect him. I'm quite fond of Satin, and I'm sure you will grow to love him too." 

"Then it's decided." Sansa smiled. "Mya will come with us to the North. She would have come along anyway, to help us traverse the mountain passes. It would be good to have her up in Winterfell." 

In all honesty, Jon was not sure if it was wise to allow a seed of King Robert to come along with them. Baratheon blood flowed through her veins. What if people wanted to rally behind her and claim the Iron Throne in her name? What then? A stag was a stag, whether born in or out of wedlock, especially now since House Baratheon was losing legitimate claimants left and right. The succession to the Iron Throne was a most delicate matter right now. 

Still, seeing the happy smile spread over Sansa's face, Jon could not find it in himself to paddle back on his word. Mya Stone's presence elevated some of Sansa's woes. That was enough reason for Jon to see to her protection and care. 

A towering figure shadowed their table suddenly. Looking up, they saw Lady Brienne of Tarth's solemn face. 

"Your Grace, I have something to share with you." She said, cradling her helmet as she looked at Sansa. She was suited up and armoured thickly, with full breastplate, hauberk and surcoat. Was she planning to go to war? Her reticent squire scurried behind her, also armed for travel. 

"Please, tell me what's on your mind." Sansa said as she finished breaking her bread in smaller pieces. 

"I've come to tell you that I've made a decision." 

"What sort of decision, Brienne?" 

The tall woman cleared her throat, bracing herself for something. "I wish to go with Ser Jaime Lannister and retrieve the other part of your father's sword." 

Jon grimaced at the mention of Jaime's name. The knight had made himself scarce, for his own good, but Jon had never forgotten that he was present at the Gates. He was due to leave the same moment he and Sansa made their way north. 

Sansa smiled, a little saddened but kind nonetheless. "I already had that suspicion. Worry not, I'm not insulted or aggrieved by your decision. I know you place high value on Ser Jaime's well-being." 

"Not that I can understand." Jon grumbled beneath his breath. Sansa gave him a pointed look. 

Brienne of Tarth drew her sword and knelt, bowing her head. "I swear to you, my queen, I will return to your hearth and table soon, for I am still your loyal shield. I beg you not to hold this against me. Please, as a token of my loyalty, I relinquish Oathkeeper to you, so you may still have faith in me." 

Sansa looked at him, not knowing what to do. Jon bowed forward and took the Valyrian steel sword from her hands. 

"I promise to both of Your Graces, that I'll return with the other Valyrian steel sword. Come what may." 

Sansa offered a grim smile and nodded. As soon as Brienne left, the smile faded from her face. "They always have someone better to choose than I. I've always been the second choice for others." 

"Not to me, Sansa." Jon said immediately, clasping her hand. "There is no one else that matters more to me than you, right now." 

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, grimacing bitterly. "You've said it yourself. _ Right now _. Perhaps you feel that way now, but later on, you might think differently." 

"No," Jon said with the simplicity of a man pointing out that the sky was blue. Sansa rolled her eyes towards him in question and he continued. "I don't think I will." 

Sansa's shoulders faltered as a soft snort filtered out of her lips, like she did not believe him, her attention back to spooning her blackberry porridge. The bitterness had washed away from her eyes like dirty water, at least, replaced by something pleased and peaceful. That pleased him as well. 

They ate from their bowels in amiable silence. Jon still found some clumsiness in their interaction, for they still knew not what to make of the other, but Jon gathered that that had to be a matter solved by time. 

He had never known much about Sansa except her preferences for songs and silks and pretty things, the usual objects of affection for girls sheltered in cosy circumstances. The woman next to him was finer along the edges, polished and wrought like an iron blade, fair and strong. Her distrust was a little saddening, for Sansa had once been such a source of hope and cheer. 

It was one of the reasons why he so desperate wanted to seek her out and find her. Jon wanted to see whether that same hopeful girl had remained. If she had, then perhaps some of that radiant light he always associated her with could shine on him a little, for the gods knew how badly he was in need of some hope in his heart. What he found instead was a soul as damaged as his. 

Sweet Sansa and her dreams. 

It must have been so painful when those very dreams she grew up with shattered in thousands of pieces. His dreams about the Watch did, at least. 

All of it further made him determine to see to it that Sansa was done right by. After all the heartaches, after all the trials and tribulations, she had every right to be at peace now. 

Soon, they all stood in the courtyard of the Gates, a hundred horses readied for the northerners to depart. Lord Royce had brought them as a token of his fealty, the best-bred palfreys and destriers in the Vale to give them a swift journey to Winterfell. 

"Now, my lovely Queen Sansa, write to me oft and cheerfully, will you? You're cruel enough to take Mya away from me, so don't go and neglect poor little Randa or I'll start boring myself to death. I want to hear all about your queenly adventures as many times as possible." Lady Myranda simpered like the minx she was, holding Sansa tightly to her bosom. 

"I will, Randa, I promise." Sansa wiped away her tears, giving a wobbly smile. 

"You better!" Giving her cheek a smacking kiss, the buxom lady shooed Sansa away playfully. Lord Robert demanded her regards then, squirming in Maester Coleman's hold. 

As Sansa made it to her palfrey, Myranda then regarded him with those knife-like eyes of hers, pulling her smile even wider. "And you, King Jon, I'm not much of a threat physically, but I have my ways in harrying other people. You do right by your wife, as I'm sure Sansa will do right by you. Keep that lady warm and sated and you'll have a son in no time!" 

Chuckling uneasily, Jon nodded and kissed the chipper lady's hand when she offered it. Myranda Royce gave another of those pearly smiles, her eyes winking with approval. Her father came up next. 

"You Grace, we will keep you abreast about our campaign in the Riverlands. I wish you a swift and safe return to Winterfell." 

"May the gods help you in your efforts, Lord Nestor. The Riverlands have long suffered from the Lannister scourge. A quick and clean liberation is what we all would wish for, but that would be too hopeful. Do what you must." 

He parted with a grave nod. When all was said and done, Jon went to join Sansa's side again, placing a hand on her shoulder as she addressed the Arryn court. 

"All of you have my sincerest gratitude for giving me sanctuary in the Vale. My beloved father and your late liege the honourable Jon Arryn would have looked at us with affection, proud to see their people so united like this. Here is to hoping that this great alliance between the North and the Vale will continue to prevail till the end of time!" 

"Hear, hear!" Mya Stone shouted from atop her mule. 

"To the King and Queen in the North!" 

"The King and Queen in the North!" 

"The King and Queen in the North!" 

As the chorus continued, Jon helped Sansa sit side-saddled on her palfrey, hoisting her up by the waist and taking extra care to guide her feet into the stirrups. 

"Are you ready, Sansa?" 

She smiled, for once bright. "Yes, let's go home." 

Jon mounted his own horse, a dark brown young destrier who was eager to gallop its hooves. Snapping the reins, Jon signalled the start of their journey back home. A journey long overdue in his opinion. 

Then, like a herald of winter, Ghost emerged out of nowhere, his white shadow trotting up to smell him up, and then Sansa, before breaking into a run back to the woods. 

Amidst the falling snow and blowing white winds, they would make their way back to where they belonged. 

In the familiar lands of Winterfell. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've grown very busy with university, so consider this the last 'weekly' chapter. From now, updates will be less frequent. I'll try to stick to something like a monthly update, but I'm not sure yet. 
> 
> Also, in light of what is happening right now in the world regarding Covid 19, I wish all of you the best as we face this pandemic.

** _SANSA_ **

"Do you trust Lady Brienne, Sansa?" 

Sansa turned to Jon as they cantered along the kingsroad, the small pitter-patter of rain dropping on top of her hood softly. A cold breeze ruled over the northern retinue as they made their way across the Causeway, the horses nickering every time they stepped on some marshy piece of earth. 

Sansa lifted a shoulder and then dropped it in a small shrug, "I do, and I also don't. Brienne came to me out of the fogs with Ser Jaime Lannister and Podrick Payne. She had gone through a heavy journey and I didn't have the heart to send her or Podrick away." 

That was partially true, at least. That day had been particularly trying, for she had to face the Vale lords and reveal herself as Sansa Stark. Her mind was not the soundest back then, jumbled and exhausted as it was. Everything was a blur until the next day, where she decided to pay Jaime Lannister a visit and needle him for information. It only seemed to have resulted in frustrations. 

Brienne then came to her, and in gallant fashion swore by the old gods and the new that she wished to uphold a vow she swore to her late lady mother, to be her sword, to be her shield. Sansa had been an emotional mess at the moment, and rejecting that offer sounded foolish at the time. Why should she have refused free protection? But as the days passed, Sansa began to think very deeply about some things, Brienne and her motivations one of them. Sansa had heard that before Brienne's beginning as a companion to Ser Jaime, she served Renly Baratheon in his Kingsguard. Renly, who had risen against both Joffrey and Stannis. He had been a traitor when he went up in arms against them, she had soon realized, for he declared for his own intent and wanted to take and sit the Iron Throne as its king, whether he was the rightful heir or not. 

Someone who declared for a traitor had to have dubious morality, and since that conclusion, Sansa regarded Brienne with slight suspicion. 

"What about the Kingslayer?" 

Ser Jaime Lannister was another mystery altogether. Cersei's twin brother, Cersei's golden shadow, Cersei's rumoured lover, who always prided himself as a Lannister, had come alongside Brienne, and Sansa knew absolutely nothing of the reason behind that. Maybe, he had finally come to see what kind of rotten creature his sister was. If so, it was a realization way overdue, but whatever made him abandon the lion queen, that did not mean Sansa had the generosity to trust him. 

Sansa caressed her palfrey's muscled neck. "Honestly, I do not care about the reasons why he came. He's his own man, a Lannister man, and the Lannisters have always worked in treacherous ways. I trust him as much as I trust any person with that accursed name." 

'So you decided to give them a trial of a sort?" Jon said, and Sansa looked up, smiling lightly. 

"Of a sort, yes. I didn't know what to do with them for a long time. What would they mean for me? What purpose would they serve? Then an idea suddenly struck my mind. It would both prove their commitment and return to us a precious heirloom. If they succeed, then I would grant them a greater part of my trust. If not, well, then at least they didn't end up as glorified sentries constantly viewed with disdain and mistrust." 

"Impressive. You have a good mind for political savvy, Sansa." Jon praised stoically, nodding before he stirred his destrier into a gallop. It made her cheeks burn a little, Jon's approval. Sansa smiled to herself in pride as she snapped the reins of her horse lightly, catching up to him. 

It felt good to be complimented for her smarts, where so long, she was considered some feeble-wit by most people around her. Petyr considered her stupid, as did Joffrey and everyone else in King's Landing. 

Both Petyr and Joffrey were dead now. 

The sun was at its highest now, the hourglass showed, and the majority of the northern retinue had started grumbling in appetite. On Jon's orders, they decided to make camp for the moment. They had crossed the boundaries into the Neck five days ago, the bogs and moss appearing in thicker thatches the more they travelled up. A stale scent normal in marshlands had also begun to thicken the air, fog creeping in like a green cloud of dust all across. 

Up ahead was the sign of the Causeway reaching its end, the road leading into Moat Cailin and the lands of the North. The ancient stronghold's towers were scratching the clouds, and Sansa could see the tall and dilapidated structures from afar with clear eyes. 

The Causeway was a treacherously narrow strip of land raised on an embankment with swampy grounds on either side of it, dangerous creatures lurking in the depths of those bogs. In advance, Jon had sent a rider to meet with the garrison of Moat Cailin, to take pulse of the circumstances and tell the stronghold's denizens to make preparations for the arrival of their king and queen. 

The only safe way to enter the North was through the Neck and Moat Cailin, no other way existed without encountering a horde of lizard lions or spear-armed crannogmen. For thousands of years, the North had broken the backs of invading armies at Moat Cailin, throwing them back into their own lands. 

Some said the ancient fortress was protected through runes forged and enchanted by the children of the forest, who carved them into the walls and the battlements and above its portcullis. Old Nan had told her stories about the mighty fortress of Moat Cailin a few times, but they had been tales that did not interest her much, for they were bloody and dark and slightly disturbing. 

They were tales Arya and Robb and Rickon enjoyed. The last time she had been at Moat Cailin was with King Robert's entourage riding south to the capital. A long time ago, that was. It felt like another life entirely. 

At first, Jon wished to take the journey back from where he came from, to Coldwater Burn and board a ship at the Fingers so they could sail to White Harbour. That idea went down the drain as soon as word reached that a heavy storm was terrorizing the Bite. 

Sailing had been heavily advised against. The storm did not look like it would blow inland, so Jon and Sansa agreed to travel by the roads back to the North, sticking to the coasts south of the Bite and the Three Sisters, taking the route which would lead them to Moat Cailin. 

"Where is Jon, Satin?" Sansa asked as she placed her embroidery in her lap. 

Her husband's steward perked up from his perch, letting loose of his ladle as he glanced up at Sansa. Satin was in the midst of cooking their broth, a light meal good for travelling he said, and its herbal smell pleased her nostrils, filling their tent and chasing away the dingy tickles of the region. Mya was cutting slices of bread for their supper, humming a southron tune to herself, ignoring them all together. 

Satin soon returned cooking their broth after a moment of thinking, adding some salt and pepper. "I think he went out to see our surroundings. That's what he said, at least." 

"Alone? I don't think it's very wise of him to venture out on his own like that." Frowning, Sansa stopped her needlework and rose from her wooden chair, placing the new banner of House Stark on the table. She was almost finished with it, proud how it had started to come together. 

As a token of her faith in their marriage, Sansa wanted to surprise Jon with their new banner, and it had been an utter struggle keeping it secret from him. Jon's keen eyes always noticed even the smallest of twitches. Sansa had to tip-toe like a mouse around him to escape his notice. 

Not that he paid her attention to the point that it became overbearing. He was just a sharper man than what she was used to. In the past, it had been Petyr who made her walk on eggshells, for she had always been careful what to say around him, but every man after Petyr Baelish were blunt and easy to read. 

Jon was as easy to read as High Valyrian. 

Satin chuckled, reaching out for bowls. "His Grace is never really alone. Ghosts prowls around the bushes, and not a single person could hope to put up a fight with Jon or his direwolf. The White Wolves, they're called." 

She thought of Lady then, a pang hitting her chest at the memory of her beautiful and gentle companion, all those years back. Her fur was soft and brushed, her eyes golden and kind and loving. Would she have grown to be as big as Ghost? Would she have been her shadow as Ghost was Jon's? Would Lady have protected her from the south's cruelty? 

Maybe, maybe not. Arya did the right thing when she released Nymeria into the wilderness. Sansa should have done the same. If she did, then Lady would have still been alive and breathing at the end of her feet. How many times had Sansa thought about that? Too many times to count. How many times did she regret her inaction? Just as many times. 

"I wish to go find him." Sansa said suddenly, earning her Mya and Satin's regard. "It would not do to have him wonder about so carelessly. He's King, the North has need of their leader now more than ever." 

"Or is it perhaps that you miss staring at your husband, Sansa? He's fine, most likely, every man has need of some quiet, I reckon. I miss the quiet of the mountains, at least." Mya snickered, sitting near the kettle and dipping her bread into their broth. Satin did not look too pleased and scolded her for her impatience, to which Mya merely snickered louder, nibbling on her bread. 

Sansa's cheeks burnt even though she sat a little straighter, squaring her shoulders like a proper lady. Her armour were courtesies, after all. "I only worry something might happen to him unbeknownst to us. The King in the North roaming about in uncharted lands is a recipe for disaster." 

"Supper is almost done, anyway." Satin exclaimed as he sipped from the broth, nodding in approval. "I will go in search of Jon as soon as I've added the parsleys, Your Grace. I know for a truth he wouldn't wish to miss my infamous mutton stew." 

Satin was truly a kind man, Sansa thought to herself with a smile, all dimples and bright-souled like a devoted septon. Jon was truly lucky to have a friend like him by his side. 

"No, Satin, stay here and finish the broth. We would need it for our journey. I'll go seek out Jon instead." Sansa said, dusting off her simple woollen grey gown before standing up. 

"Oh, but my queen, I couldn't possible let you go into the wilderness. Jon would have my head for dinner." Satin chuckled nervously. 

"Would you like for me to come with you, Sansa?" Mya added, already reaching out for her dark cloak. 

"It's all right. Stay. I won't be long. Just point me where he headed towards." 

After donning her black cloak and tying her fur boots, Sansa opened the flap of the royal tent and greeted the cold winds heartily, her cheeks already chafed with windburns. Winter had not yet been formally announced by the Citadel, but Sansa knew in her heart. 

_ Winter is here. _

She answered the stiff greetings of everyone, smiling like her mother taught her to, even if they were not wholly deserving. The sudden switch between wishing her as far away from Winterfell to welcoming her had left a sour taste on Sansa's tongue. The northern lords acted like fickle temptresses, trying to seduce her with their friendship and well-wishes when ostracization had not worked for them. 

Jon still nursed a grudge towards some lords who had been especially loquacious. It was all a nightmare to Sansa, who knew not whether to cling to her resentment, or allow for it to flush away. If she let go, a great deal of heartache might disappear along with it. Would that make her look like a weakling? Was forgiving a weakness? 

To take the interest of the North and her dignity as Winterfell's daughter into consideration had been an impossible thing to even out. Sansa had not yet truly forgiven their willingness to forsake her, but she was nothing if not an understanding soul. 

Necessity sometimes forced people to deal with nasty affairs. 

Gods, she was at a loss so much. 

"He went out into those woods, Queen Sansa." Satin pointed towards a group of trees due east of the Causeway. "I advise you to be cautious, the soils beneath can be rather squashy. You might get stuck in these moors." 

"I will. Thank you, Satin." Sansa nodded and took off. 

"Are you sure you don't wish for an escort, Your Grace?" Satin's voice rang out one last time, but Sansa was already deep in the soggy grounds, hearing it squelch beneath her every time she took a step. 

Eventually, she found solid ground again, to her relief. Treading through a bog was frightening to say the least. Who knew what kind of creatures lived beneath the waters? Her feet took her on a stroll across the swamplands, the lands making way for more luscious trees and bushes. 

Sansa spotted a sea of water lilies in the ponds, pretty purple little flowers that brightened her mood considerably, picking up one and taking a sniff of their sweet scent. Sansa pressed on with her little walk, pulling her cloak together to shield herself from the pointy twigs as she entered thicker foliage, feeling them tug at her clothes a bit as she padded on. 

And then she saw him. 

Sansa had to take a moment to catch her breath as she stumbled upon Jon bare-chested and wet, wearing only his rolled-up cotton trousers. Water droplets ran down the rippling muscles of his back, trailing a path along the numerous silver scars littered across. The lengths of his arms were also clean-limbed, handsomely taut with strength. His fingers were tangled in his unbound hair, wiping back tresses of dark brown, a glossy sheen there from how wet they were. 

It seemed Jon had not taken notice of her presence, for he continued leisurely, whipping water into the nook of his armpits, washing his face and hair with careful strokes. Sansa leaned against a tree, blushing as she gave herself a moment to admire the show Jon put on for her, unbeknownst to him. She caught herself setting her teeth in her bottom lip, gnawing on the skin as a pool of heat started gathering down in her stomach. 

Sansa was aware of how comely Jon had become. From the lanky boy who always stuck to the shades to a man grown, hardened by trials and tribulations. Sansa was no fool, for she knew what attraction was. She had been attracted to Ser Loras, and Joffrey before him. The pull of men was not a foreign idea to her. Now, she felt an attraction towards the man she once called half-brother, and who now called himself her cousin. Her cousin and king and lord husband. 

Suddenly, her mind threw her back to the day when Ser Waymar Royce and his father Lord Yohn visited Winterfell and how madly in love she fell with the gallant knight. He and Jon had things in common, she now came to realize. A great many things. It made her ponder whether she always harboured a certain attraction towards dark-haired men. Fate liked to play jokes on her, Sansa thought with a humourless grimace. 

This heat that was swirling inside her stomach ought to have shamed her, but if Sansa was honest, it only served to utterly frustrate her mood. Jon and she had not lain since their wedding night three sennights ago. Some reservations were still present in her husband's mind, for his touch was always soft and kind and chaste. He touched her as if she was made of glass. 

There was nothing wrong with that, of course, for she liked the gentle caress of his palms. It made her feel safe, but Jon certainly had much more power behind his touches. He had awakened something inside her the night they consummated their marriage, something ravenous and needy, and Sansa was more than a little eager to experience it again. Was it scandalous for ladies to enjoy the act of coupling this much? Not according to Myranda. 

And truly, Sansa had a multitude of reasons to seek it out more oft. Her duty was to deliver an heir for Jon, first and foremost. That was her duty since the day she knew the burdens of a lady, and now, that necessity was more apparent than ever. The more they laid with each other, the greater the chance was of her getting with child, of course. Maybe duty would compel Jon to visit her bed more oft. 

Coupling was not quite easy when they were often surrounded by people, though. Satin and many of Jon's bannermen strolled into the royal tent to seek their king's heed about the most menial tasks, to her chagrin. It made any attempts by her to broach the topic of regular coupling useless, for she was never given the chance to do so. 

Mayhaps, Sansa would get her chance when they arrived in Moat Cailin and permitted the luxury of privacy. She certainly hoped so. 

Absently, Sansa noticed that Jon was finished with his washings and made a turn around. She gasped in horror at what she saw littered across his chest, a hand flying to her mouth. So engrossed by her shock, Sansa failed to notice how her foot had stepped on a twig, snapping it. 

Loudly. 

"Who goes there?" 

In a flash, Jon had picked up his sword and pointed in her direction with the intent to kill. 

"It's me, Sansa." She stepped out of her hiding place and made herself known before Jon, making him drop Longclaw. His face was set in a deep scowl, an arm across his chest to conceal the frightening gashes that marred his body. Mother's mercy, as much as he tried, it was no use hiding them, all seven wounds. They gaped like mouths, almost, a shiver running up her spine at the thought. Those were not ordinary wounds, they looked mortal and vicious and _ oh gods _...her knees wobbled, a lump in her throat, making it impossible to swallow. 

"Have you seen enough...?" It might have been said in a whisper, but it could have been a scream just as well, for they spoke of much grief and shame. Storm grey eyes looked at her with a glazed over gleam, like he was not here at present, like he was somewhere else, somewhere dark and painful. He had dropped his arm and bared himself fully to her in his half-naked warrior glory, with scars and all, for it was no use trying to hide them. She had seen them already. 

Sansa's mouth had dried up, no words proper enough to describe what she was feeling. Scoffing, Jon dragged himself out of the waters and donned his fur cloak. Something snapped inside Sansa, making her dart forward in order to reach him. 

"Who did this you?" Sansa demanded, grabbing Jon by the arms, halting his advances. 

"What does it matter?" Jon tried freeing himself from her grip, but she refused to let go. 

"It matters to _ me _." A quiet rage was simmering beneath the skin of her flesh, her blood hot and angry. 

"It shouldn't. I've gotten my revenge already. They won't ever see the light of day again." 

_ They...? Was he betrayed? _ The revelation lessened the heat of Sansa's rage enough to make her breathe again. Sansa's hands flitted up towards Jon's cloak, prying it open tenderly, or at least, she wanted to. Jon's own hands intercepted her in a panic, clinging tightly to them. 

"What are you doing?" His brows were furrowed tightly, jaws set on each other, the muscles rolling and straining as he looked at her with burning grey eyes. 

"I need to see them properly, Jon." 

"Why?" 

Sansa chewed on her bottom lip, shaking her head. She just had to see them closer up. Perhaps her frightened mind had played a trick on her and the wounds were not as bad as they looked. Perhaps she had...mistaken. 

Reluctantly, Jon gave her permission to slid aside his fur cloak. 

She choked on a sob at what she saw. 

"Oh, Jon..." Lifting a shaky finger, Sansa traced the wound above his heart with the utmost care, noting the flinch coming from Jon. It was a hideous black hole, like a maw without teeth, big and gaping and..._ Mother _ _ have mercy. _

He did not have one, but a total of seven wounds littered across his torso, all of them equally disturbing. None of them had healed properly. The flesh had grown black and grisly. Did Jon not bother with cleaning those wounds up? How could he not? He could die from an infection! Surely he knew that? 

Sansa could feel the tears prickle at the corner of her eyes as she continued her ministrations. As much as she was horrified and shaken to the core, she could not help herself trying to soothe these wounds with gentle strokes of her fingers. She thought her scars were bad. These made hers pale in comparison. 

"I think that's enough." Catching her hand, Jon set them aside and pulled his fur cloak around himself again, taking stiff steps towards his clothes which dangled from a low-hanging branch. Ghost was laying nearby the tree, his great head resting on his paws, ears perking up at the approach of his master. Sansa stood in silence as she watched Jon dress. It took him not long before he was fully garbed and in front of her. 

"Take my hand, Sansa. These bogs can be dangerous if you take a wrong step." She took his hand and strung their fingers together, enjoying the solid warmth of his palm. Ghost was on her right as they travelled back to their encampment, trotting up and licking her other hand. She ran her fingers through his coarse fur, tugging across his scalp a few times. 

"Jon, what happened to you? How did you get those wounds?" The question wheezed out of her before she knew it, morbid curiosity compelling her to find out. 

"I'd rather not talk about it..." Jon's steps started turning into longer strides, whether conscious or unconsciously, almost pulling her along. With a firm jerk, Sansa reined him in a little, wrenching him out of his thoughts. 

Sansa wanted answers, but he was not willing to give them. "Fine, don't answer that. Answer this then, why aren't your wounds treated properly?" 

"Because I don't want them to..." 

"Jon!" She halted with a shriek, snatching her hand away roughly. "Stop acting like a stubborn child! Do you have any idea what kind of foolish danger you're putting yourself into? Walking around with untreated wounds like those?" Jon said nothing, just standing there with his back to her. It was infuriating. Pulling him around to face her, Sansa was about give him a bigger tongue-lashing, but that desire crumpled like dust as she took him in. 

His face had gone pale, bone-white as the moon, eyes like the shards of a broken sword, telling of horrors he was not comfortable sharing. A slight tremble wrecked his body. He was in a near state of terror, she realized with a heavy heart. 

Jon had tilted his head so he was looking somewhere at the ground, frowning sadly. "It matters little now, Sansa. I don't feel them. They don't throb with pain, not anymore at least. They're just...there as reminders of past mistakes." His gaze came back to meet hers. "We should go back. Satin might get worried." 

They were walking again, hands at their side this time, Jon using a stick to prod into the ground and see if it was traversable. A myriad of thoughts had come to swirl inside her mind, but Sansa held them all to herself. She did not wish to spook Jon with all the things she had in her mind. Jon had his secrets he did not wish to share, and that was fair. 

There were a few things she was not comfortable sharing, either. 

As they came upon the fringes of their camp, Sansa placed her hand on Jon's arm. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it, but can I ask you something?" 

"What?" He grumbled, picking a stray axe and handing it over to one of his men. 

"Please see to a maester at Moat Cailin, so he can suture the wounds for you." 

He turned to her sharply, glaring. "No, I will not have someone see nor touch them. I'll be branded as an abomination." 

Sansa looked at Jon with nothing but genuine confusion. "What are you talking about? Jon-" 

"I said no." 

Gods, Jon was infuriating her, her hands balling up in fists. Sansa simmered in frustration, her teeth grinding harshly. Jon was so stubborn, he failed to see why she was making a fuss about! Sansa was doing this out of concern for him. How could not see that? 

Entering their tent, Sansa was just in time to see Satin placing the last bowl on the table. Upon their arrival, he tried to bow his lips in a smile, but pursed them immediately at the sight of his king looking sour as a lemon. Mya looked at her questioningly, eyes flickering between her and Jon, who made a straight line to the table and sat down without a word. 

Supper went by in muted silence. Satin slurped a little from his soup, but his eyes remained on Jon keenly, as if he was waiting for a reaction. Finally, he stopped when Jon failed to react and ate his broth quietly. 

Jon brooded while he took spoons of his supper, and as time passed, the frown on his face started loosening until it left him altogether. He seemed to have settled down in his mind from whatever ponderings he had. 

"I want to apologize for my behaviour earlier." Jon murmured as he passed Satin his bowl, who gathered all of them and went outside with Mya to rinse them clean, leaving them alone. Jon clasped his hands together, staring at the table. "It's just...I find it hard talk about what happened..." 

Sansa looked at him sadly, her indignation from earlier nowhere to be found. "I didn't want to push you into a corner. I was just...shocked at what I saw." 

Jon cringed back into himself. "I don't blame you...the scars are repulsive to look at." 

"No, Jon, that's not what I meant. I just want to make sure you were doing well." 

"Your Grace!" 

Sansa had more to say, but she was rudely interrupted by the arrival of a guard who all but stormed inside, almost falling to his hands and knees. Jon jumped to his feet, a hand on Longclaw's pommel, coming to stand by her side and placing a protective hand on her shoulder. Sansa liked its weight on top of her shoulder. 

"What's the meaning of this? Have you no regard for your King and Queen's peace?" It was a Cerwyn man-at-arm who entered with such haste, dropping to a knee in deference at the scolding. 

"Forgive me, sire, but we have a grave situation here. I entered without thinking." He bowed his head, sounding contrite. 

"Grave situation? Have bandits taking up shelter in Moat Cailin?" Sansa asked, concerned. 

"N-no, Your Grace." He stammered. "Our rider came back from Moat Cailin unharmed, but he comes bearing news." 

"What kind of news?" Sansa continued, fitting her fingers together with Jon's on top of her shoulder. 

"He was denied entry by the garrison, my lady." 

"By whom?" Jon said sternly, Sansa feeling his fingers dig into her shoulder. The guard shook his head, and it made Jon click his tongue expletively. "What in Seven Hells is going on. Who dares bar us entry into the North?" Satin then decided to barrel in, looking dishevelled. "Satin! Prepare the horses. We make for Moat Cailin right this instant." 

The camp was soon dissolved and Sansa was helped into her saddle by Jon before he climbed his own horse. Haste was making them all jittery, for the news of Moat Cailin denying a king's scout entry did not bode well for all of them. Jon rode out in the front with Lord Larence Hornwood and Ser Wylis Manderly, who had both been charged with leading the vanguard of their entourage. 

Sansa remained with Satin and Mya slightly behind them, where the safety of armed Stark soldiers was thicker. It did not please Sansa that she was left by Jon to remain somewhere behind him. She was his wife, he needed her by his side. 

Convinced, Sansa snapped the reins of her palfrey and urged the docile creature forth, soon catching up to Jon's destrier. 

"Sansa? Why are you here? I told you to stay put with Satin. It's safer there." Jon ordered the two lords to move on while he slowed down to match her pace. 

"I know what you said, but I disagree. I don't think I'm much safer with Satin." Sansa gave him a pointed look. "I'm your wife, we need to face this problem and all our future problems together. We're a pack, remember?" 

"And what if this problem is more dangerous than you thought?" He frowned. "Moat Cailin's circumstances have been obscure for very long. I'm not sure whether it's occupied by forces loyal to us or someone else." 

"Well, we're about to find out. No?" 

Jon did not answer, sighing merely, though the shimmer in his eyes belied his vexation, and Sansa took that as a victory, pleased to see him accede to her. For so long, she remained unheard and ignored, and in the past, that was all she was, a little songbird singing to her captor's tunes. Now, she was a wolf again. It was time to show that she too had fangs. 

They rode hard and fast for Moat Cailin, the sound of a hundred hooves filling her ears. Sansa was not used to extensive horse-riding, the blisters across her thighs ample evidence, but she was not whining about it much. In King's Landing, she had endured lashes and punches. This was merely a discomfort. 

Sitting side-saddled was proper for ladies, but Sansa wished to become a true horse-rider. It gave a stronger appearance, a fiercer appearance. Sansa now understood why Arya had always been so desperate to know how to ride like her brothers. 

In time, she would be able to endure long journeys without suffering too much. Jon had been a gifted rider, she remembered. Perhaps he would teach her how to better ride a horse. 

There it was, then, Moat Cailin, the gateway to the North. It struck an eerie image, this ancient stronghold, with its moss-covered towers and rot-festered walls, a cloud of fog hanging above the crenellations of its towers. Black blocks of basalt littered with ghostskin were scattered around the holdfast, some half-sunk into the ground. 

They must have been the old remnants of its once great curtain walls. Surely, it must have been an imposing sight in the centuries past, but what now remained of Moat Cailin was little more than a decrepit old heap of boulders held together by scaffolds, palisades covering crumpled parts of the walls. 

"In the name of House Stark, open these gates immediately!" 

A guardsman poked his head out from the crenellations at Satin's exclamation. "Who are you to speak on behalf of House Stark?" 

Jon urged his horse forward. "You're talking to the King's privy steward, soldier! I am Jon Stark, the King in the North. What possible madness encouraged you to deny us entry into our own lands?" 

The guard disappeared from sight and the horses were starting to run out of patience, neighing as the fog encroached closer. The Neck would make any man or beast uncomfortable, for the lands did not invite much peace of mind. The bogs were filled with ravenous creatures and who knew what else. Sansa herself was getting fretful the longer they were standing here. 

The wheels suddenly started rolling, the drawbridge coming down and opening the entrance for them. A man wearing green leather armour with brown stripes with a three-pronged spear in his hand greeted them. He was grey-bearded and old, but not feeble, deep wrinkles rippled across his face. As all crannogmen, he was short of stature, folded into himself a little with his bent back. 

"Hail King Jon and Queen Sansa." He rasped like a rusty saw. "My deepest apologies for denying your scouts entry. We've been on guard ever since we took back this castle from the Bolton and Frey garrison, and as soon as we saw the Stark direwolf running through the wind, I knew that I had to open the gates." 

"How can we name you, my lord?" Sansa smiled from atop her horse. 

"Ivarn Blackmyre, Your Grace." He bent the knee, placing his spear on the ground. "We're honoured to receive the King and Queen in the North. Word has reached the Seven Kingdoms of your marriage, and we crannogmen have not felt this content since the birth of Lord Howland's heir, Jojen Reed. You must be tired. Come, the keep has been prepared at your pleasures." 

Sansa noted two stableboys rushing up with a block, placing it next to her palfrey. With care, she dismounted and accepted their hands to assist her in coming down. Jon and the rest of their retinue followed suit quickly and got off their own horses, quickly going about their work. 

"Please, follow me. The journey must have been quite tiring. We've prepared the lord's chambers for Your Graces. I hope Moat Cailin will be to your liking." 

"Thank you, Lord Blackmyre. We will certainly appreciate a warm bed and a raging hearth." Sansa gave a polite smile. 

"Please, there's no need to call me a lord, for I'm no lord at all. If it pleases, you can call me Ivarn." 

"I must ask you why you refused to grant entry to my scouts earlier, Lord Ivarn. Surely, he carried the Stark banner with him and should've at least been given the chance to explain himself inside your courtyard. I will not take satisfaction with mere wariness." Jon took a firm stance, crossing his arms at the shorter man. 

Ivarn's beady eyes turned to Jon. He was quiet for a good while before he spoke again. "My king, if it pleases, I will reveal why we were so hesitant in receiving your scouts. Later in the eve, I intend to share this. It is as you suspected, mere distrust did not make us forget decorum. For now, I ask you to warm yourself with fresh food and ale. I promise, we have had good reason for our caution." 

Sansa was very intrigued. So was Jon, and he nodded sharply, placing a hand on Sansa's shoulder to guide her and himself away. "Very well, then. See to my men, they're all in need of some respite. You will be summoned later this eve." 

"Of course, sire." 

Satin and Mya approached them, taking off their riding gloves as Satin gave the place a wary glance. "This place reminds me of Castle Black. It has the same amount of eeriness. It would be well to be on our way as soon as possible. Don't you agree?" 

"I'm a stone with no mountains around me, as much as out of my element as a fish on dry land. I don't like all these bogs and creeks. Lizard lions have always scared me." 

Jon nodded. "Let's rest for now. I'm sure you're eager to lay in a bed not made of hay and thatch, Sansa?" 

She put on a soft smile. "Yes, quite eager." 

Some rest in a proper bed would do her wonders. The journey had been hard on her body, and the prospect of a featherbed beneath her sounded like a comforting idea to look forward to. 

As they all made for the wooden keep, Sansa thought of what she pondered about earlier today. It was not the right moment to bring up the issue of producing an heir, but once they were alone in the lord's chamber, Sansa was sure that a lot of things would have to be spoken about. 

She already began to prepare her mind for it. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely did not expect the world crisis to give me more time for writing, but here I am....

** _JON_ **

It was quiet and dimly lit inside the lord's chambers, only the crackles of the hearth reaching his ears, a soft lullaby that failed to ease him into slumber. His body laid sprawled on the featherbed, Jon burying his face in his pillow and willing himself to sleep as he forced his eyes shut. 

At the same time, sleep was the farthest thing Jon wished to do. Closing his eyes meant allowing the darkness to take hold of him. When the lord's chamber threatened to grow too dim, his breath would start coming out in troubled puffs, fear gripping him in its cold hands. Jon pushed the curtains aside, lit up candles, stoked the hearth. Anything to keep the darkness away. 

Jon did not know what he wanted. Comfort? Rest? Solitude? All of them and none of them at the same time. He might as well wish for water to turn into wine or lead to change into gold. Gods, he was close to tearing out his own hair. Bunching up the furs in his fist, Jon tried harder, biting the inside of his cheek, but nothing succeeded. His mind was troubled too much. 

And he knew the reason why. 

It scared him once again, the deep dark expanse of black over his vision, no sound to be heard, no touch to be felt. It reminded him of Castle Black, of the mutiny, of the feel of cold steel plunged into his heart and his time roaming the planes of death. He thought he had grown passed it, this fear of the darkness, but Jon guessed he had just fooled himself all this time. It had been locked inside a chest, pushed into the shadows of other, more pressing matters. 

Now, it had escaped its confines to start haunting him again. 

When Sansa saw the depths of his scars, Jon wished for a bottomless pit to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole, mortified to his core that she had discovered the state of his body. He felt raw, stripped naked down to his bones and vulnerable before her brightly lit blue eyes as she took him in keenly. Scars included. Her mouth was agape, her eyes shocked and fear-stricken. 

Jon almost broke his neck with how fast evaded her gaze as it bore down on him, for he could not bear to see the revulsion swirl in her eyes at the hideous sight of him. He would not be able to bear that. Not from her, especially not from her. 

The wounds were ugly, he knew, the gods above knew how ugly and deep and repulsive they were, how they served as the themes of nightmares. The theme of his nightmares. They haunted him at night, a seasoned fighter, so how would they not horrify Sansa, the sweet-tempered lady that she was? 

So ashamed, Jon erected walls around him to brace himself for the inevitable, walls he was trying to tear down so he could finally not feel as if he was being stuffed in a lockbox. He knew that it bothered Sansa that he was so elusive about himself, cold and distant sometimes, but her patience persisted, for she held her tongue and merely kept smiling. The gods had truly fashioned her after the merciful Maiden the southrons loved to pray to. 

When they were settled, Jon said that he wished to lay down for a while, using tiredness as an excuse. At least he did not lie completely about that, for the entire journey did leave him exhausted. He ached both inside his mind and across his body. There were a hundred different things beleaguering his mind, a cacophony of voices speaking in guttural tones. It was as if the Others were breathing down his neck. 

For the moment, Jon wished to just avoid being in the presence of people after what had happened at the small creak, fearing that they too would start whisper about him behind his back, a foolish notion since Sansa was the only one who knew about them. She would never go and tell others about them on a whim, he knew. 

But still... 

He had gone through great pains to conceal his scars. He never allowed Satin or any other servant to help dress him, always doing it himself. If someone entered unannounced into his presence, Longclaw would be at the length of their neck in a second. 

They would have been discovered at some point anyway, but Jon had thought against all hope that it would have been on his terms. _ What has ever happened in your life on your terms? _

His bastardy, his post of Lord Commander, his kingship over the North, his death. None of them had been of his choice. They were like mirrors he did not wish to look into, for each of them were broken and distorted, a taint over them. The taint of coercion. 

Only the Night's Watch was his choice, and it left naught but bitterness and resentment on his tongue. Not even his marriage to Sansa was really his _ choice, _grateful as he was with it. He married Sansa to protect her from the cruelties of this world, and while the choice was not his, it did not mean he held grudges about it. Mayhaps it was best that it had not been his choice, for every time he did make choices, it ended up coming to haunt him like vengeful wraiths. 

It still felt like grasping at straws, sometimes. He died and came back again and Jon could not make any sense of it. It utterly eluded him how he came back from the dead. The stab wounds littered across his chest still dully pulsed; angry and puckered they were no more, but black and tiny gaping maws, ravenous and abyssal, grim proof of what they stood for. 

Wounds meant to put a man in the ground for eternity. 

Whenever Jon brushed over a wound during changings of clothes, the urge to collapse onto the ground nearly overtook him on some occasions. How would he be able to get passed this? 

The hinges of a door groaned, and Jon knew that only one person dared to enter this chamber without preamble. 

"Jon? Are you awake?" Sansa´s voice chimed, closing the door behind her softly and nearing his bed. The lady's chamber was but a stride away, opposite of his, and Sansa had freshened herself up there after settling in. Travelling for almost six-and-ten days had taken a toll on her, she said, and the first thing she asked for was a hot bath. 

Jon had taken satisfaction with the freezing cold waters of the Green Fork's rivulets, for the cold did not bother him much. Not at all, really. He was born with Stark blood, and the Starks did not mind the cold. The time spent at the Wall must have steeled it further. 

_ The Starks endure. They always have and always will. _

Sansa stood at the edge of his bed, no doubt dressed in a dainty egg-blue gown, hands folded demurely, the very painting of a graceful lady taking pity on a broken-spirited man. Then, Jon felt his bed dip, a lovely soft hand rubbing his arm. 

"Jon? Do you wish to dine with me and the others? Lord Blackmyre prepared supper for us. It is not much, the supplies he has at his disposal meagre, but I reckon it is at least a little filling. It would be bad manners to decline." Slowly, she traced a pattern with her caress, going up and down the length of his arm as if she was soothing him. The gentle feel of her hand was almost enough to make him weep. 

Jon stifled his groans, trying to feign sleep, for he did not feel like going down the hall and eat. It might have been eve, but his appetite was not making itself present. Satin's broth had been basic at noon, yet it did the trick of sating his hunger. Someone else could have his portion tonight. 

Jon failed to notice how Sansa's hand had journeyed up, crossing the slope of his shoulder all the way down to where it met his neck. Her warm palm touched the skin of his throat, nails lightly scratching the stubbles of his beard, soothing his woes further. 

"I know you're awake. It's no use pretending." She whispered, the words coming out as soft as the rings of a bell. Her thigh was pushing against his back as she continued her ministrations, her hand squeezing the flesh of his shoulder again. As good as her touch felt, Jon could not help but feel indignant about it, for it looked like she was treating him like a pouting child who bumped his head against the wall. Instead of answering, Jon thinned his lips further, his brows knitting together, determined not to make a sound. 

Sansa sighed then in defeat. "All right, Jon. Stay if you wish. I shall go down alone and see to our people. You must be tired, no doubt. Have a good rest." 

What he did not expect was the kiss against his temple, fleeting and featherlight, but he felt it nonetheless, warm as the rays of the sun. Then, Sansa rose and disappeared through the door, leaving silence behind. 

Jon's heart skipped a beat when he felt the plumpness of her lips against his temple. It was a small sign of endearment, chaste and pure, sisterly some might say, but he had gone so long without affection that even the most meaningless of affectionate tokens made his heart stutter and stammer. 

With Ygritte, even when she was right beside him and all the acts they did out of love, or at least he thought they did them out of love, Jon still felt this sheer loneliness eating him up from the inside. The same loneliness he felt when he was with the Night's Watch. 

Sansa's mere presence seemed to burn away that loneliness. 

Gods, Jon scoffed miserably at himself, he really was a downtrodden mess. To sound so overwrought. What use was self-pity? He remained there for what must have been an hour, brooding in his bed. Jon began to feel angry at himself. _ When are you going to stop wallowing in self-pity, you wretched bastard? _

Sansa needed him. He vowed to keep her safe and comforted, and now, she would go and see to strangers' needs, _alone_, solely because decorum dictated. Sansa was willing to let herself be surrounded by people she knew little about, _ alone _, while he was here inside his chambers, cowering behind the walls. And why, exactly? Because it bruised his confidence that she had seen his wounds? 

He had to stop thinking of himself like he was some broken object. Maybe he _was _broken, that was fine, but it did not mean for him to act like it. He had people who depended on him, an entire kingdom. The North had no use for broken crutches. 

Deciding that he had enough of this 'woe is me' charade, Jon willed himself to get up and see to his people downstairs. He was King in the North, not the Bastard of Winterfell or Lord Snow of Castle Black. The King in the North. 

He may forever feel like Jon Snow, the boy who was born in the shades of his trueborn cousins, but it would not do to let desolation rule his mind. He had to start acting like Jon Stark, Robb's legitimized and chosen heir as King in the North. He had to act like a proper lord husband.

_Let them say Eddard Stark that raised four sons, not three. I am not raised a coward. _

He threw his great cloak over his shoulders and opened the door. The keep was small and easily steered through, right in the middle of the three towers. It had only a few halls that lead to three sections; the servant's quarters, the lord's quarters and the maester's quarters. The great hall was closest to the maester's quarters, and once Jon crossed the hall, a door to his left creaked open, an elderly man carrying a handful of tomes stepping out and bumping against his shoulder, causing a book to fall off the stash piled up in his arms. 

"Your Grace! My deepest apologies! I did not see you there!" Orwen, the maester of Moath Cailin, croaked as he struggled to place the books on a nearby table, readjusting his wire-framed glasses with a gnarly hand. 

"It's all right. There was no harm done." The books looked heavy in Jon's opinion. "Here, let me offer a hand." 

"Oh, I could not possible ask for your assistance, Your Grace." Smiling weakly, the maester bowed down and tried to pick up his books one by one. 

A guard decided then to pass down the corridor, and Jon called out an order. "You there, help the maester carry these tomes." 

Startled, the guardsman gave a nod as he approached, a man with a youthful face and a few pimples, no doubt a fresh recruit of the master-at-arms here. 

"Thank you, Your Grace. I will make good use of this young lad's strength." Orwen gave a firm on the young man's back. 

"Yes, yes, of course you will. I still am waiting for that posset for my wife you promised to make, Maester Orwen." The young guardsman grumbled, carrying the books in one arm. "It's been a sennight now. You promised it two days ago. I even gave you a silver stag to encourage you further." 

"Ah yes! I have it concocted, my boy. Your wife will be round with child soon enough. You can name him Donnel, after your dear uncle. Or Danny. I remember Danny well, that sister of yours. Such a feisty young woman she was back then." 

"Stop it, you old piece of bread..." He sighed tiredly, rubbing his eyes. "I don't think I can keep up with my wife's nightly activities anymore. Guard duty is rough as it is, but it's nothing to what them crannogmen prodding the Frey lands down south with the grey-beard warrior are doing. I wonder how the old trout managed to rally them so swiftly behind him." 

The pair disappeared after rounding a corner, leaving Jon to once again resume his path down so he could join the rest of his entourage. _Old trout? Who could they be referring to? _

Another thing came to mind then, making Jon call out to them. "Maester Orwen!" 

"Yes, Your Grace? Do you need something?" He looked at him expectantly. Jon demurred, chewing on the bow of his bottom lip. 

The question was on the tip of his tongue, but something held him back. Hesitation was holding him back. Was Jon prepared to let him sew his wounds? Was he prepared to let him_ see_ his wounds? 

Hesitation eventually made him bow out. "Never mind. Go about your business." 

Before the maester could reply, Jon marched out with, his nape hot with shame. _Some coward you've become, Jon. _He would have to find courage again to address this with himself again, but for now, he had other things to do. 

Once he stepped inside the keep's main hall, the first thing he noted was the relatively prevalent silence enveloping everyone. All of the northerners were busy chewing on the bones of their chicken legs, sipping on their soups or breaking off pieces of bread to fully pay attention to their king sauntering in. An odd one would dip his head in respect, but the rest ignored him steadily. The journey must have been tougher than he had thought. 

Sansa sat at the end of the hall, her plate empty. She wore a tight smile as she engaged with Alysane Mormont, the daughter of Maege Mormont speaking gruff and clipped, an ingratiating smile playing at her lips. As Jon approached the table, he brushed a hand over Sansa's shoulder, his small pat making her perk up, eyes brighter than before. He picked up on the conversation they were having as he took his seat. 

"...House Mormont has always been honest to your family, Queen Sansa. I will not ask you to forget the slights our harshness brought upon you. We regret it, but the circumstances asked for prudence. We have something to prove, and so do you know, my queen." She said, taking a swig from her ale. 

"Who has something to prove?" Jon said as he took the vacant seat of at the head of the table. The moment he sat, a young servant boy hauled a tankard of ale his way, but Jon declined. 

"Your wife, King Jon." Alysane was looking at him now. "Many of the northern houses will view Queen Sansa as a southron, and it is well within their rights to do so. She was raised by Lady Catelyn, may the gods lay her soul to rest, and Lord Eddard's late wife made no qualms in showing where her roots came from. Winterfell has a sept because of her. Our way is not the southron way. You are aware, are you not?" 

"Aye, I am more than aware how we northerners are." Jon grunted. "Suspicious, gruff, blunt and honest." 

"Hear, hear." She approved and raised her tankard, Alysane took a long gulp before slamming it back on the table, rattling it. 

"You're right, Lady Alysane, that there is much trust to be rebuild," Sansa said, her polite veneer not slipping. But then, her eyes turned a little mistier, blue and dark as ice. "but I will tell you this, my lady." Usually, Alysane acted more man than woman. She had the blood of House Mormont, the blood of bears. The eldest daughter of Lady Maege had the strength to wrestle with bears, the gruffness to challenge the giant-blooded Umbers. She was without a doubt a true warrior, but she looked at her side with cautious eyes now, for winter had slipped into Sansa's voice and eyes. 

Sansa sat straighter as she addressed Alysane, as regal as befit her title. "I will no longer tolerate being told that I'm southron. My name is Sansa _Stark_, I'm just as much a daughter of my father, Eddard Stark, as you are Lady Maege Mormont's. I have been told that the North was ready to march through winter for my sister, Arya, for the North loves House Stark. I too am a member of House Stark. I too _ am _of the North." 

"I never said or meant that you're no-" 

"No, you might not have said so, but the message was clear as day." Sansa cut her off sharply, surprising Jon with the volume of bite in her voice. Sansa never interrupted someone, for they both knew it was not in her nature to do something as thoroughly ill-mannered as cutting someone midsentence off. "I will work tirelessly to regain the North's approval. I will fight, scratch, bite and snarl for my rightful place, and none who will refuse to recognize me for who I am. A Stark of Winterfell. Have I made myself clear?" 

Alysane gazed at her, eyes narrowed, and Jon could only sit there and watch how a she-bear was measuring the snarls of a young she-wolf. 

Then, she smirked and brought her tankard up. "Clear as spring water, my queen. May we see more of this fierceness. The North has never had need of fragile leadership. King Jon is a strong leader. The question is, Your Grace, are_ you _a strong leader?" 

Sansa gave a serious look. "Only time will tell." 

Alysane nodded, pleased, picking up her fork and knife to stab into the piece of mutton chop she was given. Sansa started on hers too, quartering it in even pieces, but she did not look like she had much of an appetite for meat. 

"Would you like some more mutton chop? The grease is too much for me, I fear, and I already had some bread and cheese earlier." Sansa said, offering her fork to him. 

"Sansa, winter will be soon upon us. I think it would be wiser to eat up while we can. We cannot waste a meal." Jon raised his knife to chew on a piece of his own. 

"Are you telling me that I'm thin?" She looked down at her stomach, pressing a hand against her waist. "I guess I am a little on the gaunt side." 

"I wouldn't say that, but a bit of extra fat would help us." The taste of his mutton chop was a bit raw, the blood still soaking out and flushing across his tongue. He could not say he minded it much. In fact, it tasted better this way. He felt a tug at his mind. _Ghost. _The taste of iron flooded his tongue again. _ Must have caught a deer or rabbit. _

"Hmmm, I do wish to prevent gaining too much fat." She wondered, sharing a soft smile. "You wouldn't like having a sow for a wife, I reckon." She tried her hand in jesting, but Jon was still caught off guard a little, not expecting it. Sansa never joked, her mannerism and penchant for decorum preventing that. 

"I, ugh, don't know what to say to that, Sansa." He was tongue-tied and at a loss of words. "I mean, you look fine as you are already, not too fat, not too thin. Willowy, I'd say, willowy as a tree." 

“Willowy...?" 

"Aye," Jon scratched his beard awkwardly. "you've become a comely young woman, Sansa. Many of your qualities husbands find desirous in their wives. I would not worry so much if I were you." 

Jon was already treading this messy way, so he might as well try and stir it to a normal end. He knew he was wasted with words, never one to know eloquent speech to woo members of the opposite sex. Putting his foot in his mouth more often than not had been the result of him trying to talk to ladies. In the past, Robb had teased him endlessly about it, joking that his piss was greener than grass when it came to girls. He was not wrong. 

Sansa seemed to have taken his compliment in stride, smiling with a little dusting of red across her cheeks. "So, you remembered how to compliment women after all. I'm pleased to see." 

Sansa had always been the one to remind him how to act around girls._ That's pretty, _Jon remembered her say when he asked her how to properly flatter the ladies of Winterfell's court. Would she take that role onto herself, then? The ways of Winterfell's court? It would be the most proper of things. Lady Dustin's words then came to him. 

_ A lady's armour are courtesies, they say, and the court is a lady's field of battle. We wage war with flattery and words, not with swords and spears. The sharpest weapon does not have to be a blade, it can just as easily be a word. _

It should be worth noting how Lady Barbrey Dustin and Sansa would treat one another. At the moment, Barbrey Dustin was the most powerful woman in the North after Sansa, with her titles of Royal Spymistress and ruling Lady of Barrowton giving her more than enough prestige and influence to compete with even a queen. 

Jon hoped that no such thing as a contest for dominance would brew between the two. The North could afford no internal division. Naturally, if it ever came down to it, Jon's loyalty would be plain, but he hoped that Sansa would find an ally in her, as he had come to find. 

Satin and Mya decided to make themselves known, sauntering in while having a muffled discussion. Once they reached the table, Satin settled his disturbed eyes on him. 

"What's the matter? Why the pallid face, Satin?" Jon gestured for them to take their place. 

His steward swallowed thickly. "I just returned from the maester's rookery..." 

Leaning forward, Jon placed his elbows on the table. "And? What are you trying to say? Talk now if you find this important enough to share." 

Breathing in, Satin took a moment to find the proper words. "I don't know how to explain this, my liege, but..." 

Then, a small burst of noise happened at the far end of the hall as a group of leather-armoured crannogmen entered the great hall, hardwood spears held with both their hands, ready to butt out anyone coming too close. They looked as if they were guarding something. 

With a slight narrow of his eyes, Jon noticed something. Or someone, rather, huddled in the middle of the crannogmen, a bundle of cloths held in her arms. For the barest of moments, Jon caught a glimpse of the face beneath the hood. It was a girl's face, young and haunted. 

Then, she disappeared through one of the corridors leading up into the higher quarters. 

"That's the reason, Jon." Satin whispered in his ear. "When I returned from the rookery, those crannogmen came in with that girl. She was escorted from one of the others towers. I think they called it the Children's Tower. So, I heard the servants talk of something very disturbing, and they all point back at her." 

"Who is she, Satin? Did you discover that?" Sansa asked. 

Mya came with the answer as she frowned heavily. "They were guarding her like the knights of the Kingsguard. One almost swatted at me with his spear. Almost made me want to draw mine own dagger." 

"Perhaps she was Ivarn's daughter. The girl was protected quite expensively, not one gap to be found in that formation." Jon said idly. 

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Ivarn Blackmyre came limping up the hall and stopped before their table. "Your Graces? May I ask for a moment of your peace?" 

Jon looked at Sansa, she looked back evenly. They both nodded and stood up, following behind Ivarn in muted leisure. 

"Forgive me for suddenly requesting your regards, but I think it's proper now that I explain a few things." The three of them continued walking, taking a flight of stairs in their path. Jon noted that this was the path leading back to the lord's quarters. Then, they stopped before a door, Ivarn turning around and rummaging through his pockets, the sound of a keychain rattling. 

"You can start by explaining to us why you refused to immediately grant us access to the Moat." Jon crossed his arms as he stood behind Sansa. She gave him a knowing look, telling him to rein in some of his gruffness before she offered a polite smile to the old crannogman. 

"What His Grace tries to say is that we would like to know the reason behind your reticence. Everyone here seems to be on their highest guard." Ivarn nodded shakily as he found his keychain. 

"And with good reason, my lady. As you may already know, the Neck is very close to the lands of House Frey. Dozens of my crannogman clans have picked up the bow and spear to start harassing Frey caravans and riders wherever we may find them. We've dragged many of those traitorous dogs into the bogs and fed them to our lizard lions as vengeance for what they did to our late king, Robb Stark. But, six moons ago, we had the fortune of meeting a few people of very high note." 

"Which people are you talking about?" Jon frowned, feeling his interest piqued. 

Ivarn turned his eyes to the door, fitting the key inside the lock. "Maybe it is better if I show you to her." 

He turned the lock and pushed the door open. The first thing Jon heard was the coos of a babe. Sansa stepped inside first, Jon following right behind her. 

In the middle of the room was a hooded person, slender and shy-faced as she sat on a chair rocking a bundle of cloths in her arms. Jon could faintly make out a pair of tiny fists swinging forth. 

When the door opened, she threw her eyes up to look at them in alarm, rising from her chair. It was a young woman with soulful brown eyes, chestnut curls and a heart-shaped face on the verge of crying. 

"Sansa Stark...?" She whimpered softly, coming closer. Then she saw him and stilled her movements, clutching her babe closer. "Are you Jon and Sansa Stark, the new King and Queen in the North?" 

Sansa looked up at Jon, confused. "Yes, we're Jon and Sansa Stark. How can we assist you, my lady?" 

"Oh, thank the gods...thank you, thank you, thank you..." 

She suddenly began sinking to her knees, crying. Startled, Sansa went out to kneel before this stranger, her hands hovering over the woman, not knowing what to do. 

"You know now who we are, my lady. We wish to know your name as well." Jon said as stepped up, looming over the two women with his arms crossed behind his back. 

Sansa helped the young woman stand up again. She could not be any older than himself, youthful and pretty and oh so sad. She reminded him of someone. 

Her hand not holding the whimpering babe came up to wipe away the tears staining her cheeks. "O-of course, apologies for my lack of manners." She took a deep breath. "My name is J-Jeyne, Your G-Grace." 

"Jeyne Poole?" Sansa gasped, holding the girl's face in her hands, looking at her more intensely. 

Impossible, Jon thought with shock. Jeyne Poole disappeared during a snow storm, right after he had taken Theon's head as justice for his crimes against the North. This girl could not possibly be Sansa's childhood friend. He had yet to tell Sansa any of this.

It also confused the girl know named Jeyne, who shook her head a little with a hiccup. "N-no, Your Grace, I'm Jeyne Westerling. I am...Robb Stark's widowed wife." 

Jon's eyes dilated, shocked to his very soul. If she was his wife, then that meant the babe was... 

Jeyne lowered the child in her arms with great care, her brown eyes glistening with tears. "And this is his son..." 

Sansa and Jon crowded her like she was a hearth fire in the middle of a storm, looking down at the babe and watching as he fluttered his eyes, his Tully blue eyes, open. By the gods, he was so beautiful, Jon had to bite back a sob. Sansa was caressing his cheek and then went on to stroke the light dusting of his red curls, tears streaming down her face. 

There was no doubt about it. 

This was Robb's trueborn son. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After two months, I've tentatively decided to pick up the pen and write again. It was a hard chapter to suddenly decide to take a break at, because a lot is being told here that borderline feels like word vomit. I've rewritten this a few times, until I just decided to settle with this final version. 
> 
> I'll try to update a bit more frequently now, since I have the time and should probably set up more commitment for it.

** _SANSA_ **

"What do you think she named him?" 

Jeyne had been nodding off in her chair, content to allow her sleeping son to be held by Sansa and let herself rest for a minute. At first, Sansa was beyond frightened to hold the little bundle of life, this fragile creature who would squirm and cry at the merest presence of inconvenience. He was a fussy child, not liking the arms of a stranger, it seemed, for he moved about like he was placed in hot waters. 

Sansa had only ever held little Rickon in her arms and that had been ages ago, back in a castle made of warm mortar and full of people better experienced in holding babes. Now, she was holding Robb's boy with desperate and delicate hands, a child of only ten moons old. As Sansa gazed down at the child lost to his dreams, thoughts filtered through her mind, deep strings of thoughts interwoven into a thick and blackened web. She did not know what to make of this child in her arms. 

Of course, a part of her, the Stark part of Sansa, the loving side of her, that part wanted to cry and kiss the child's cheeks over and over again, thanking the gods profusely that they gave Robb such a gift. Just by a mere glance, her heart was bleeding with a sense of love for this babe that left her breathless. 

But another part of Sansa...a dark and festering side of her had started snapping its jaws. That side left Sansa reeling with a sense of profound horror. 

Jeyne confessed that she had not slept for three days straight at the news of her and Jon's arrival at Moat Cailin, frightened that if the knowledge came out that she was alive, their safety would no more be guaranteed. Jeyne knew what happened to kings and the sons and brothers of kings if they posed a threat, imagined or elsewise. 

Of course, such sentiments were hogwash. Sansa had reassured Jeyne as such again and again, but Jeyne said that she could not help it. Dark things had happened to her in the aftermath of the Red Wedding. Jeyne had seen the atrocities the Freys and the Boltons committed, the greatest of them all Robb's death and humiliation. 

Jeyne had not been there, but it was not needed. The jeers and insults persisted for well over a moon, all throughout the Twins and beyond. _ Here comes the King in the North, the King in the North, the King in the North! _They had laughed and sang and jeered as they paraded Robb's mutilated body across the Twins, Grey Wind's severed head sewn on top of her brother's torso in a show of utter contempt. Mother's throat had been slit so deep by the Freys, the bone underneath the flesh could be seen. Jeyne had shared it all, petrified and pale, the ghosts of her past haunting her. 

As Jeyne recounted the story, Sansa kept choking on broken sobs, sitting there with fat tears rolling down her face as the pain lodged in like the tips of poisoned arrows. She had to look away a few times, unable to see the pain in Jeyne's eyes. The story itself was enough to break her into countless of pieces, seeing the pain alongside it would kill her surely. 

Jon sat beside her, quiet in his grief, just as heartbroken as she was, for he loved Robb as well, loved him dearly, fiercely, loyally. They were thick as thieves. Of course, it was Theon Greyjoy who Robb's called his closest friend, but was Jon he called brother. Not half-brother, _ brother. _

For Sansa, the pain was partly selfish in nature. Robb had been her hero once, and it hurt so bad when she realized he had failed her. Few things hurt as much as your heroes failing you. 

For Jon, Robb was his other half, two sides of the same coin, one bright and charming, the other dark and stalwart. It might have pained Jon more grievously in some ways. Robb meant the world to him. 

Her whispering voice had roused Jon from his thoughts, making him look at her with glistening eyes. Jon had always been a quiet person, but his eyes told her enough. In everything, he wished not to bother others, not even when he was mourning. Sansa came and caressed his cheek with a cold hand, a rueful smile making its way to her lips, silently sharing in his grief as well. 

Jon held her hand against his face, looking at the ground with those grey eyes of his as he started speaking with raspy tones. 

"I can think of a few names. Robb loved the stories of Artos and Theon Stark. Warrior kings with wolf's blood in their veins. As much as he loved warriors, he also loved peacekeepers. Robb held a certain respect towards King Torrhen Stark. We northerners have used his name as a jeer, as an insult, but Robb never saw it that way. He's always been wise beyond his years." A sad, fond smile graced his face, making him look just a little bit more handsome. "Once, he said to me that rushing into battle against overwhelming odds isn't bravery, it's folly. It's braver to admit defeat and avoid bloodshed than let people do for nothing. Torrhen Stark spared his people from dragonfire, and for that, I'm sure the northerners were grateful back then. I could see Robb name his boy Torrhen." 

Quietly, Sansa nodded, taking her hand back. "I once dreamt of a family too. In the Vale while I was still Petyr's bastard daughter, I had dreams of Winterfell and a family." _ A girl like Arya, and boys like you and Robb and Bran and Rickon. _"I dreamt of sons and daughters with dark hair and grey eyes and long faces. I wanted to name them after the people I lost." 

"Robb, Bran, Arya, little Rickon..." Jon clasped his hands together, fidgeting. Something was on the tip of his tongue. "You've not been alone in your dreams, Sansa." A warm and fuzzy feeling bubbled inside her at the way Jon tried to smile at her, a forlorn little gesture, nothing to get her chest tight over. It still did. "When I was about to vow myself to the Watch, Uncle Benjen reminded me of what I was about to miss. Marriage, children, a family to protect and take care of. Back then, I thought little of it, for it was a pipedream. Who could ever take a bastard to husband? I was content with my lot for a while. And then, as time passed, as Fa-" Jon bit his tongue. "As Uncle Ned's death reached my ears, Uncle Benjen's disappearance, I realized I was surrounded by people I shared no blood with. It left me with such loneliness inside, I felt cold for a whole week. I was told the Starks never felt the cold, but I did then, a deep sense of cold freezing my soul. My disappointments in being a black brother started to pile up too, for the Night's Watch was not what I thought it was." The bitterness seeped through, dripping from his words like tarnished drops of water. He had not even reached his twentieth nameday, and already, his heart was filled with heavy disappointments. It made Sansa's heart ache for him. "I began thinking about the things I could've had more and more. A wife, a family, even a son of my blood." A sniff left him while a hand went up to quickly brush across his teary eyes. "I would've called him Robb." 

Sansa could not take it further and went to grab his hand, holding it tightly in her own as tears started welling up in her eyes again. She did not know what to make of herself at the moment. The kinship she felt with Jon had seemed to thicken further, for Jon's story echoed her own so eerily, it was uncanny. 

Once, Sansa had dreams as well, dreams of the sunny south, of gallant knights bestowing her their favours and golden princes kissing her hand. The knights, she had come to see, were all dishonourable down south, the princes rotting beneath the gold. 

Jon too had come to see his dreams and expectations turn to dust. Brothers who betrayed him, honour nowhere to be found in his name. Their stories seemed to flow parallel of the other until fate decided to make them converge, like two river currents crossing finally. 

Perhaps...it was meant to happen like this? Two lone wolves thrown in the dark by the gods over and over again, only to see the light in each other amidst the shadows? Perhaps...they could find that dream again? 

Sansa creased her eyebrows, mulling. Robb's boy slept peacefully in the crook of her arm and the whole situation made her pause further with sudden clarity. _ This could be us in a while _. 

Jon, her and a child of their making. Maybe in the not-so distant future, they could build together what they had lost. It brought her a queer sense of content. 

_ A son of my own, or perhaps a daughter...how sweet it would be. _

The thought made her smile, almost. 

"I do think I know what Robb named his son." Jon stood from his chair and knelt at her knees, taking great care in not waking the babe as he caressed the tuft of red hair atop his head with a finger. He looked at her then with the softest eyes she had ever seen. "I think you know, too." 

"Yes..." Sansa felt the tightness inside her chest grow, knotting like overgrown vines. There was only one name Robb would have used for his firstborn son. 

"Eddard Stark." 

It was Jeyne who said it, whispered it, actually. She had awakened from her sleep, watching them with half-lidded eyes. "Robb wanted to call his son after his dear father." 

Jon gave a shaky sigh and took Eddard from Sansa's arms. She missed the babe's weight in an instant. 

"He's the rightful King in the North..." Rocking the child gently, Jon peered at her and Jeyne. "Did Robb know of your pregnancy? I reckon he did not. Elsewise, he wouldn't have legitimized and named me as his heir. He must be brought before the lords of the North. They have a right to know that their king produced an heir." 

Jeyne grew visibly unsettled then, scowling fiercely as left her chair with great strides and relieving Jon from Eddard, to his dumbfounded surprise. "No, I will not have it. Eddard will be no heir to any crown or throne or kingdom." 

Jon's face had grown as hard stone. "You would deny him his birthright?" 

Cradling her son against her breast, Jeyne grew misty-eyed again. "I've seen what a crown does to its bearer. My son will not know, nor will he ever know that burden. The times I've had to comfort Robb back to sleep as he wept over the choices he made as king, the weight of a crown bearing on his shoulders, it broke my heart to see it. I will not see Eddard succumb to the same pains." 

"The North will not see it that way, Lady Jeyne." Jon, ever the son of duty, continued. "By rights alone, the North and Winterfell are Eddard's. If word comes out that Robb sired a child, a _ son _no less, the high nobility will be even further divided." 

"Yes, and not only the North. My son will a victim of your expectations as well." Jeyne snapped. "You, your nobles, anyone else with interest, all of you will try to dig your claws and fight over him like beasts over a carcass until you shred him to pieces with your demands." Jeyne held her son tighter to herself, glaring, her eyes showing the fierce protectiveness of a young mother already dedicated to her child. "I will _ not _have it, Your Grace." 

Jon's came together in a severe frown. Opening his mouth, Jon wasready to argue back, but Sansa stopped him with a hand against his arm. "Jeyne, would you allow us solitude? I have some things to discuss with my husband." 

Jeyne calmed down and nodded, giving a small curtsy. "Naturally, Queen Sansa. I will take my leave." 

She took Eddard with her and left the chambers with a click of the door, allowing both her and Jon to properly address this new revelation. 

"I think it's fair that we should disinherit Eddard." Sansa dove straight into it, shocking Jon into silence. 

He looked at her for a long time, stone-faced and solemn. The strength inside his steel eyes scratched at her skin like the tips of a sword. Jon was not pleased. He was right to be. "You want to deny Robb's son what is rightfully his? Explain to me how _ exactly _this is fair?" 

"I don't want to do this either, but we have little choice." Sansa said back, trying very hard to keep her voice steady. It weighed on her mind like a boulder, but she had her reasons for suggesting disinheritance. "Jeyne made it very clear that she has no desire for Eddard to wear Robb's crown. More importantly, we have no need of another claimant to the North. The two of us already caused enough strife, we can't have Eddard pose an even greater threat as well." 

Jon bristled slightly in his furs. "Threat? _ Threat _ ? Sansa, what are you thinking? This is Robb's _ son _we're talking about, the son of your brother. How could you be so cruel?" Then he changed his tone. "This is not your decision to make. It is the North's will to-" 

Sansa cut him off sharply. "No, it's not their will anymore. It's yours now. It's _ ours _ now. They have elected, and they've elected _ you _as King in the North, and you have taken me as your queen. We are the North now, Jon. You and I, and no one else. Do you wish to know what the North's will was before that? Before us? It was throwing Arya and I for the lions. It was denouncing me for a Lannister. It was refusing to acknowledge me as Eddard Stark's child just as much as Robb was when I was wed against my will to Tyrion Lannister. They refused to do their duty, and now we hear that Robb sired a son with the girl who made him break his oath with the Freys?" 

Sansa quieted abruptly, her eyes pulled to the ground, chest heaving with laboured breaths. Sansa knew not what came over her, the haze of confusion and anger misting her eyes to the point of dizziness. 

Gods, what did she just say...? 

Soft footsteps approached her then, making her close her eyes. Jon knelt and carefully took her hands. "Sansa, is this about...a grudge? Do you have any lingering resentments towards Robb?" 

The question shook her to the core, hands trembling furiously at the insinuation. Did she? Was she clinging to some twisted form of resentment she knew nothing of? Was that what made her suggest something as cruel as disinheriting Robb's only boy? 

Sansa's eyes stung, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, blood flooding her mouth at how harsh she was biting. Her shoulders shook with a profound sadness. "By the gods, Jon, no. I just...I don't know anymore." Sansa bit her lip again, brooding into a corner. She knew she had chosen her words wrongly, and now, her desperate mind tried scrambling for an explanation. 

Maybe it was, Sansa thought with mounting shame. Maybe some dark remnants of bitterness had forced her to say such things. She had taken one glance at Eddard and Sansa knew what it all meant. Robb had chosen love over duty. Robb had thrown the words of their mother's house into the wind followed his heart. 

It was love that made him marry Jeyne, love that made him care for her strongly enough that he had taken her to wife. Meanwhile, her own brother refused to exchange Jaime Lannister for his sisters so he could hold political leeway over the Lannisters. What did two Stark girls mean compared to Tywin Lannister's golden son? But if he bore her love, Robb would have made the exchange, right? 

It was like drinking poisoned wine and not knowing when the venom would kick in. It was as if a dagger was shoved into her heart to see the hypocrisy stare at her with familiar Tully eyes. Robb married Jeyne for love, not for duty, and Robb abandoned Sansa for duty, giving up his love for her. It hurt her so much, the revelation, so much she might collapse into herself by how heartbroken she was by it. 

And now, they were confronted with Robb's son. Her nephew, the true heir to the North, the result of that betrayal. If it were up to Jon, he would relinquish their hold over the throne and they would serve as regents over Eddard. He would crown his child king and not think twice about it. Jon was good and honourable that way. 

But could she? 

It was only proper, Sansa thought. Proper and irrational. Jon did not yet see what it would mean for all of them. 

_ Always seek out to eliminate threats against you, in however way possible, be they a peasant or a dragon. Everything can be removed. You just have to be willing enough to go through such acts. _

Petyr would have been proud of her, she thought, embittered that still, even in death, his presence still managed to loom over her like the shadow of a dark tower. Sansa hated how he had somewhat managed to craft her into a conniving creature who found distrust and doubt everywhere. Not only he, but Cersei and Sandor and all the others who served her a lesson about the harshness of the world. 

But Sansa did not mean it the way Jon thought, no matter how her words might have sounded. It had nothing to do with power of petty revenge. It took her a while, but then, Sansa saw it clearly. It was for Eddard's sake too, for Jeyne was right. 

Her nephew would forever be pulled by all sides until he tore at the seams. The North was known for having self-righteous and harsh nobles. They would devour him at the first chance of smelling weakness. Regencies meant power struggles. Sansa was tired of conflict in her life 

They would never dare do that with Jon. 

Sansa took a deep breath, trying to steady her heart, and looked at Jon again. "Forgive me, that was not what I wished to share as my reasoning." 

He stroked her hands. "Then explain to me. Why do you think we should disinherit Eddard?" 

"I was wrong. We shouldn't do that, Jon. It was...a stupid thought that came to my mind all of a sudden. I did not mean it." Trying to convey her regrets, she rubbed the skin of Jon's hand with her thumb, as if she was a child once more, a child who made a callous mistake. 

"I understand why you said what you said. At least, I think I do." 

She glanced up hopefully. "You do?" 

Nodding somewhat hesitantly, Jon moved back and paced around the room. "You're right to say that if the high lords were to learn of Eddard's existence, strife and confusion would follow. Nothing tears a kingdom apart more than multiple claimants. We have to look only south for an example." He breathed out a large sigh. "I haven't told you yet, but I suppose this is a good time to bring it up." Sansa was confused, apprehension snapping at her heels. What could possibly be so important now to suddenly divulge? "Shortly after I was elected King in the North, Lord Manderly approached me with important news. He has it on good authority that little Rickon might still be alive." 

Her breath was stolen from her lungs, making her tighten her hands around Jon's once more, squeezing hard, her chair nearly tripping as she stood up. "Truly? Are you absolutely certain? Sweet Rickon yet lives?" 

Jon grew thoughtful, shaking his head forlornly. "I am not certain. The news is fragile, based mostly on rumours and questionable accounts. In order to be sure, Manderly ordered a knight he had captured from the late King Stannis' retinue to make the journey towards Skagos, where Rickon was rumoured to be seen last. I've sent my own search party, but as of yet, no further news has reached me. I wanted to share this with you in time, but I also didn't want to give you false hope." 

The chance of little Rickon alive opened a fount of life inside her, her blood thrumming with hope. Her bones trembled, her teeth tingling. Sansa was sure that these were signs of the gods. She felt alive. 

Rickon was alive. He had to be. 

Last time she had seen him, he was nothing but a babe in her mother's arms, just merely three namedays old. It would be so sweet to have him in her arms again, to kiss his cheeks and feel her baby brother alive and well. Gods above, if they were in any way merciful and good, Rickon would be alive still. 

"If Rickon is fou-" 

"_When _Rickon is found." Sansa gave Jon a stern look, which made him sigh tiredly, rubbing his eyes like he had not slept in years. 

"We're not sure if he's a-" 

"Please, don't take this hope away from me." She pleaded. "I want to hope for more. Let me have this little flame of hope. I want to believe again that there's still good in the world." She pulled her eyes down, looking at their conjoined hands. "When I heard of your intention to get me out of the Vale, something inside of me awoke. Before all that, I felt as if I was in a deep slumber, everything passing by me like a dream. But you woke me up, and I just knew that you would come for me." She squeezed his hands for good measure. "Now I feel it again. I can _feel _it, Jon. All the way down to my bones. Rickon is alive. I know he is." 

A hint of a smile pulled at his mouth, a slight twitch upwards appearing for just a second. "All right, _ when _Rickon is found and Manderly is successful in retrieving him, he told me that I had a choice." Jon's brooding returned, his northern brogue heavy and troubled. "That I should abdicate in favour of Ned Stark's last trueborn son if I held any shred of honour. I know a threat when I hear it, and I also know ambition if it's looking me in the eye. Lord Manderly wishes to consolidate his hold over the North through Rickon." 

"And what was your answer?" Sansa wrung her hands. She was not back in the North, and already, a great deal of tension she could see happen there. A great deal had to be put to rights in the North, disgruntled bannermen one of them. 

"For his insolence? I named him High Steward." Sansa made a face. "Now, before you say anything, yes, I know what the consequences mean, but I still made the decision. Wyman Manderly is the richest and strongest of our vassals. It would not do to isolate him. At heart, the Manderlys have always been staunchly loyal to House Stark. I do not expect him to incite a revolt or war against us. The most he would do is probably demand a great council." 

"Still, we must be careful of Lord Manderly. Your search party must find Rickon first." 

Jon nodded at her words. "Yes. We must keep all claimants to the North close to us so no one else could use them. Which is also why I think that we should take Eddard with us. He'll be raised in Winterfell. Lady Jeyne will have no choice but to come with us. He'll be where he belongs, within the walls of his father's birthplace. Perhaps, if the North insists on it, we can call for a great council, but for now, we must all return. It's been too long and a Stark must always be in Winterfell." 

"We can also..." Her neck began to warm up as the thought sprung up on her out of the blue, making her cheeks round with heat. "...we can solve Eddard's issue in a different way. Tie him to us in perpetuity." 

Jon regarded her with fixed attention, wholly oblivious what she was hinting at. "What do you have in mind?" 

He was making her say it? Sansa flushed deeper. "Is it not a little obvious? How did we solve dynastic problems?" She gazed meaningfully between Jon and then back to herself. 

It seemed to have done the trick, for his eyes blew up, finally getting what she was hinting at. "A betrothal between Eddard and one of our children?" Sansa a little straighter in her place at his pensive face, her chest tight and prickly at the word 'children'. Pondering, Jon began to list off thinks coming to his mind. "We could give him land to tend to. The Dreadfort lies empty and unruled. It could be given to Eddard once he reaches the age of maturity. That, and a marriage to one of our daughters..." 

Jon's voice trailed off at the end. His grey eyes looked anywhere but her. 

The discomfort in Jon began to infect her as well, but Sansa steeled herself. "This is the most peaceful solution we can come up with it. Marriage solves a great deal in our world, I don't have to tell you that. Unless you have something else to suggest?" 

His brown locks bounced as he shook his head. "No, you're right. It is the best solution..." 

Again, he left the implications in the air and it needled her a little. 

"For that to happen, there is another issue we must solve." Sansa said evenly. Finally, she could address one of the glaring subjects as of now. "As you already know, you and I have a duty to provide the North with a royal heir. I've told you this a few times before, yet these past few weeks, you have not come to my bed. We must..." But then, her confidence suddenly failed her, her tongue-tying into a knot tautly, hands damp and cold all of a sudden, hands she was trying to rub dry. Admittedly, _ she _had not sought Jon's bed either, and it would have been highly improper if Sansa had, she said to herself weakly. 

"You don't have to say it. I understand what you're meaning." 

Sansa blushed. "D-do you?" 

He looked at her, the inconvenience not abiding. "It means you wish for me to perform my husbandly duties more oft." 

"Yes, that is exactly what I mean." She said back with a straight voice, even if heat started creeping up her face a little. "What stops you from doing them? Is it still because you have...brotherly feelings for me?" 

Sansa's confidence plummeted like a falling rock as Jon sighed, who seemed to be getting exasperated. "It has nothing to do with that. Gods, I've told you this before. Do you remember our wedding night? Is that how a brother would go about his sister?" 

The way her cheeks turned pink said that she did. The wine had addled her mind, and thus, her memories were not crystal clear about it, but that did not mean that she had forgotten. Sansa knew what was said and done, how it felt and how it ended. Sansa had been rather...forward with her intentions. 

No, she had been beyond forward. Sansa had practically thrown herself at Jon, she knew, and remembering it brought a lick of mortification to her every time. Jon had also been slightly inebriated, so Sansa guessed wine was a strong incentive to allow inhibitions to be lowered. 

In part, her willingness to have her marriage to Jon consummated was from some desperate belief that if she did not go through with this, mayhaps it would prove to be a weak marriage, like it was with Tyrion. A maiden claimed already would deter many other people from vying for her hand, be it marriage or something else. It was advantageous in so many ways, politically and socially, to be claimed and bedded by Jon. 

Not that Sansa thought that her marriage to Jon felt like some trade deal. Not at all. Though it may look like she had traded her maidenhead for political gain, it went deeper than that, much deeper. Her heart was in this as well. At last, she had found something in Jon's arms. Something she had yearned after for so many years. 

Safety. 

A consummated marriage would never be set aside, not under normal circumstances like her and Tyrion's. And besides, Jon was so sweet to her, so incredibly sweet, even if silent and withdrawn on some cases. 

And when it came to their bedding, gods...she did not want to admit it, but part of her still felt the thrill and passion of that night course through her veins. The gentle touches, the kisses, the clumsy bumps here and there. 

And Jon...Jon embraced it all. Sansa did not even try very hard. So, it made her wonder...he must have taken pleasure from this as well, and was that not a good thing? Sansa did not wish for their marriage to be a cold one either, even if she did not expect that the love between a husband and wife would blossom between her and Jon. 

It was so utterly frustrating to be this confused. 

Sansa really did not know what to think of it all. 

Not for the first time, Sansa wished she had someone to ask for guidance, for a word of advice. She was going into this unknown without a rope around her waist. A young, inexperienced girl like her trying to make sense of these kind of things? 

With a deep sense of sadness, Sansa wished she had her mother here, someone who had wisdom and experience with such things. Myranda had helped in some ways, but what Sansa needed was Catelyn Stark's loving hand stroking her cheek and telling her all the little secrets she had come to learn during her own marriage. Gods, how Sansa missed her mother right now. 

_ You're a born Stark, but you have Tully blood in your veins as well. Always remember. Family, duty, honour. _

The tall form of Jon's figure started pacing about the lord's chamber, agitation in his steps heavy and loud. Sansa watched him using a hand to rub his face, Stark eyes hard as ironbound shields. 

"Sansa, look, my reluctance to...get you with child is no fault of your own. It's mine. Forget our past and what it once meant to us. Forget that we once thought of each other as brother and sister. It's simpler than that. I'm worried for _ you _ . You're barely six-and-ten. You're as old as-" Jon suddenly bit his tongue, stopping himself quickly. "You're even younger than Aunt Lyanna when she passed away. Childbirth is one of the main reasons why women, _ girls _, die before their time. Don't you think we should wait? If something happens to you during childbirth, what am I supposed to do?" 

Jon's concern for her well-being endeared him to her much, her heart beating just a little faster, though it puzzled her too why Jon would make the comparison between her and Aunt Lyanna. Her father's mysterious sister had died during King Robert's rebellion and Ned Stark never once spoke a word about the circumstances around her. For Jon to compare her with Aunt Lyanna did not make much sense. 

Coming over, Sansa stopped Jon's relentless pacing, gathering him in her arms he would remain rooted in place for once. 

"My mother was only nine-and-ten when she gave birth to Robb." Sansa smiled softly, a finger tracing the path of the scar above his brow. "This is our duty, _ my _duty, the duty of a woman to bear her husband children. And we're not just anyone, Jon. We're creatures of duty, the King and Queen in the North. An heir would bring peace and certainty to a people robbed of that for too long." Sansa closed her grip on his arms tighter. 

Shaking his head, Jon held her elbows and pushed her away lightly. "You still don't get it. There is a difference betwee-" 

"Jon..." Sansa's beaten sigh stole the words out his mouth. "I _ know _ that I'm too young for motherhood. I flowered when I was three-and-ten, and since that dreadful day, every time I woke up in King's Landing, I was terrified of the moment that I would be married off to a Lannister or someone else of their choice and be forced to carry their child. Then that day came when they arranged Tyrion as my husband, and I was terrified, so terrified, I could've cried myself into an early grave," Her bottom lip trembled at the fear she felt then. "but what's worse, I resigned myself to such a grim fate, cruel as it was. I made peace with myself and accepted whatever the gods threw my way, and if that meant bearing a Lannister...?" Just remembering it made her shudder with pure terror. "I've mentally prepared myself to bear a child since I was _ three-and-ten. _ With someone not of my own choosing." Her trembling hand went down to slide over Jon's rising chest, palm resting over his heart, very careful not to brush over one of his wounds. "But now? Now, it's different. I'm in a different place, with different people. I was finally given the chance to make choices. If I were to bear a child now, I would not mind so much, for it would be the consequence of my choice. I could love it, I _ would _love it, raise it, look at it and know it's created from good intentions." 

It had to be a difficult thing to hear, Sansa mused as her fingers played idly with the protruding laces of Jon's tunic. It boggled Sansa why the urge came to her to bare her heart like that, but she just blurted the first few words and never stopped speaking. It happened so naturally, and it felt nothing but liberating. 

Everything she said was a closely held secret she did not think she could ever voice out to someone else. Sansa's stay in King's Landing and the possibility that she had to bear Lannister children had been a living nightmare for her. It had taken the form of a creature of sheer horror, crawling after her every step and giving chase like a grotesque monster bent on devouring her. 

It had hunted and haunted her for _ years. _In the end, Sansa survived, yes, but by the skin of her teeth. Her flesh did not come out unscathed, not without her fair share of scars and traumas. Scars which turned her skin from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. 

It must have been particularly hard for Jon to stomach her confession, for he entrapped her with his arms and held her tight to him. Sansa curved into his embrace like a rose for sunlight. 

His cheek rested atop her head, the staccato beating of his heart rapid and hard beneath his skin. "Why do you insist on you doing this to me?" 

Sansa sniffed, taking in Jon's scent with greedy breathes, for it kept her tethered to this world, to the present, not the past that had tormented her so. 

Her arms wrapped around his waist as well, cheek nuzzling against his chest and closing her eyes. "I'm sorry for putting this weight on you, but you're the only one I can be selfish with." Backing up, Sansa glanced into his eyes, trying to seem not so vulnerable, trying show him the steel she had turned her skin into. It was futile. Sansa knew that she was coming up short by quite a bit. Her skin did not shine like steel, but like porcelain again. Giving it thought, she came to realize that she did not mind, actually. "You're the only one who I think is strong enough to bear my pains. So please, Jon..." 

His hand came to cup her cheek, sad Stark eyes bearing down on her as he took her trembling form in. "I know, Sansa, I know." 

Sansa closed her eyes and sighed at the feel of Jon's lips pressing a kiss to her forehead. They stayed there for a while, soaking up the silence, just listening to the wind outside the keep. Sansa felt at peace here, 

Eventually, Sansa parted from Jon's embrace while he gazed at her. "Have we come to an understanding, Jon?" 

Jon nodded. "I will be more mindful to you from now on. Are we..." He demurred, embarrassment colouring his face. "Are we going to agree on how many times? Will this be a daily matter? Or a weekly one? What do you wish?" 

Jon's strained embarrassment also touched her, cheeks burning a little at the way Jon said 'a daily matter'. Truthfully, she would not mind the daily act of her and Jon attempting to make an heir, but she supposed that was too candid a suggestion. 

"We will figure it out, but not now, Jon." 

"All right..." 

Smiling wanly, Sansa felt drained all of a sudden, her head pulsing and her shoulders aching. Approaching the bed, Sansa sat down and blinked hard a few times, the burn of heavy eyes stingy. She wanted to lay down and sleep for a bit, all the emotional baggage from earlier finally catching, but Jon's deep voice called out to her again. "Sansa, I want to tell you something else." 

He approached her prone figure, sitting next to him, and Sansa turned her head so her cheek rested against the pillow. "Can it wait? I'm very tired and wish to catch some sleep." 

Jon responded with a blink which soon turned into a downhearted look. "Of course, the journey must have been hard on you. Then I'll leave you to your rest and find Lady Jeyne. Someone has to explain to her that she will be expected to travel along with us from now on." 

The way he looked down at the ground did something to Sansa, his lowered eyes pulling at her heartstrings, his furrowed eyebrows and dejected eyes telling her that he was about to tell her something important. Just as he was about to make for the door and leave, Sansa shot up from her bed and took his hand with hers in a gentle clasp. "If it's something you can't keep to yourself, then tell me. I want to know." 

Jon regarded with cautious eyes their twined hands before he looked up at her. "I crossed Maester Orwen earlier today, and I remembered what you said to me in the marshes." 

"About treating your wounds?" Sansa smiled, pleased to hear him take her words to heart. She encouraged him to go further with a squeeze of her hand. "So? Have they been treated." 

"No, not really..." His confession made her smile drop into a grimace. Jon raised a hand towards his chest but refrained from touching himself. "I tried broaching the subject...but my confidence failed me...I couldn't bring myself to ask him to suture these wounds. I'm so afraid of even talking about it, it's shameful..." 

"It's not shameful, Jon." Sansa squeezed his hand again. "It's brave of you to try and conquer your fears." 

Jon frowned harder, his tone dropping to a whisper, as if he was afraid to be heard. "How can someone be brave if he's so afraid?" 

Ned Stark's solemn face came to mind, then, and Sansa remembered the wisdom he always shared. "That is the only time a man can be brave." 

The words awakened something inside Jon too, for he surely must have remembered them. In that moment, he looked so small and uncertain the way he glanced at her, like a wounded wolf frightened to leave the safety of its lair. It continued to break her heart seeing him so small, so fragile, so vulnerable. 

Sansa had grown used to seeing the bravery in Jon, for she had crafted this notion for herself that Jon was the man of honour and strength any other men wished to strive at. The one person that came the closest to what her father promised her. _ Brave, gentle and strong. _

But the man standing in front of her was not made of iron either. He was made of flesh. He was mortal and alive, he bled and breathed. He was only a man, and men also had their fears. Sansa's fears consisted of bars made of cruel iron and sneering gold, a yoke around her collar squeezing out the air inside her lungs. 

Jon's distresses were not wholly known to her, but Sansa did not lack in understanding either. The rumours about what happened at Castle Black were strong still, and if rumours were to be believed, Jon had fallen during a mutiny. It would explain the wounds, at least. 

It also explained why his wounds were such a subject of sensitivity. She understood, of course, she did, and at the same time, she did not. Sansa had scars from the past as well, and they ran deep and it hurt awfully to think about them, but they were not on the same scale as Jon's. Hers could not have led to death's doors, as much as they had bled. Sansa was not sure if she could ever entrust someone with wounds such as those if she ever received them. 

An idea came to her mind then. "If you don't trust a maester to stitch up your wounds...who else would you trust then? Satin? Perhaps someone back in Winterfell?" At the lack of response, Sansa knew that Jon had no one else in mind, so she continued and laid down the offer that had formed in her head. "What about me? What if I sutured your wounds?" 

That startled Jon. "You? You wish to...tend to my wounds?" 

Her shoulders shrugged. "I've always been good with needle and thread." She grew unsure again. "Do you trust me enough to patch them up?" 

Jon seemed to be dwelling in deep thought, deliberating, but then he opened his mouth and answered in a subdued voice. "I do..." 

Sansa smiled, relief flooding her chest. "Great. I just have to find proper needles an-" 

"But not here..." Jon cut in. "It should be somewhere we both feel at ease, and I'm not too comfortable in the marshes of the Neck." 

Sansa smiled softly, understanding what he was trying to suggest. "Winterfell it is, then. When we return home, we'll see to the solution of many things." 

They shared a moment of silence, just looking at each other's face before Jon nodded brusquely, wringing his hands and looking as if he was ready to bolt any second now. "I'll leave you to your sleep, Sansa. It's late and we both could use some rest after everything that's happened today. Would you wish for me to call Mya?" 

Shaking her head, Sansa sat upon her bed again. "No, let her be, she deserves to catch some sleep. She's tough, Mya, but I could see that travelling through unfamiliar lands has made her more anxious than normal, which is only natural." 

"All right. Goodnight then. Sansa." He smiled weakly at her before slipping through the door, not even giving her a chance to bid him goodnight back. 

Laying on her side, Sansa pulled her legs up and settled into her pillow, a beleaguered sigh trailing out through her lips. Her head felt like it was made of lead, eyes drooping as sleep slowly started to take over her body. 

That night, Sansa slept with a heavy mind, hundreds of blurry scenes flitting through her vision like unfinished paintings. Her dreams were filled with something foreboding. They felt like omens, bad omens. 

Her ears picked up the caws of crows, wings flapping and conjuring a storm of grey and blue mist. A pack of wolves howled at the moon, one black, one white and one of grey furs, running through heaps of snow before settling at the feet of a dark figure with black wings. Crow wings. He stood atop a wall of ice, a perched crow with three eyes. 

When it opened its beak. 

Sansa heard a familiar voice call out to her. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note

Hello there.

It's been quite some time since I visited AO3, 5 months give or take since the last update. The first message I read was of a considerate reader asking after my well-being and if I could perhaps give some indication that I'm still healthy at least. So here we are, I'm still alive and kicking, I hope all of you are also healthy and safe. 

I realized that because of these challenging times, people might take 'disappearances' a little more serious, but rest assured, the fact that I haven't updated in so long had nothing to do with the ongoing crisis or my health. 

Now, the real reason why I haven't updated isn't multi-faceted, it's quite simple actually. I've lost my drive. Every time I look at my notes, my sheets etc, I can't bring myself to type a word. I feel trapped by dissatisfaction foremost. Some things, in hindsight, I wanted to do vastly different. I've considered rewrites more times than I can count. I think I might even do that in the future when I feel time permits me to. 

Also, and I think this is more of a conjoined reason to the above, I've started to lose my interest in the fandom as a whole, as painful as that is to admit. I used to be very excited for and committed to ASOIAF, but after prolonged lethargy and the absolute disaster that was S8 (1.5 year after the finale, it still casts a shadow over me sadly), I don't see my interest pique anymore. The fandom itself also took a turn towards somewhere that I don't find interesting, though I respect it nonetheless. To each their own, basically. I don't begrudge if others find it interesting to read because that's obviously not my place. 

So yeah, that's it in conclusion. I might come back to this when I feel like this entrapment that I'm has disappeared, but until then, I don't think I'm going to write much. I am willing to answer any questions you have if you ever feel like putting them up. 

Until next time and stay safe please.


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